


When the Tigers Broke Free

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Historical AU, Internalized Homophobia, Irish Steve Rogers, M/M, Period-Typical Slavery, Toxic Gender Expectations, Viking Bucky, non-con/rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 38
Words: 63,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: After being denounced by his Norwegian father, Boguslav "Bucky" Bjarnson goes on a quest to claim lands of his own, a place to put down roots and feel like he belongs.  While serving on a longship owned and sailed by Thor, he meets a courtesan named Steovan Rogers, a lost son of Eire whose family property is now up for grabs.





	1. It Was Just Before Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a little different from my usual works. Normally, I have the first draft done before I start posting, but this time, I'm going to post as I write. That means there won't be a set schedule. I might post every few days or sometimes longer, and each chapter will be on the shorter side.
> 
> The things in this fic will be grounded in reality with as much research as I can manage in the given time frame, but if you see any glaring errors, drop me a comment, and I'll see if I can change it.
> 
> Medieval Europe still practiced slavery at this time in history. The owning of slaves didn't start trickling off until around the year one thousand when the Roman Catholic church and various dignitaries started outlawing the taking of Christians as slaves. Given the nature of slavery, non-con and rape will happen in this story to some degree. Please take care of yourselves, and if this will be triggering, avoid this one.
> 
> Title and Chapter titles taken from the song When the Tigers Broke Free by Pink Floyd.

**901 AD Kievan Rus Territory**

A branch snapped. Bucky swung around, arm shaking from the heavy draw weight of his father's bow. There. A doe and her offspring. The doe nosed through the snow seeking nourishment, her fawn sticking close by her side.

“Shoot it,” his father murmured, warm air gusting across his ear.

He hesitated.

“Shoot it.”

“She has a fawn,” he responded.

His arm was nearly spent, not enough muscle mass in his thirteen year old frame to continue holding the draw. The nocked arrow with its sleek, iron head, wavered.

“Shoot it, boy.”

He refocused. He pulled in a deep breath and sighted down the arrow, but the doe caught wind of danger and glanced up. For the space of a breath, their glances met. He couldn't. She had a fawn.

Instead, he allowed the arrowhead to dip and loosed tension on the string, prompting an irritated “Bah,” from the adult behind him.

Nothing prepared him for having the bow yanked from his grip or being thrown to the ground with a fast expulsion of air. The man above him took a stance, draw held firm and steady, but Bucky felt piqued enough to rattle a nearby bush, layers of snow shaken loose in a flurry of snowfall.

The doe's head whipped around, and she bolted. Her fawn was fast on her heels, causing his father's arrow to sail wide of its mark. Before he could nock a second, their prey was gone. Only the still forest remained. Silence descended.

Bucky gulped when his father turned to regard him. Bjarn Geddason, the Norseman who lived up on the hill in the fantastical stone house and whose longships were numerous and more often than not weighted with cargo. Bjarn Geddason hadn't spent a day of his life hungry. Bjarn Geddason sewed bastards faster than he sowed seeds for wheat, whose lawful wife had failed to produce offspring.

One of his male bastards would inherit the man's wealth and landholdings. That was the whole point of being taken into the woods by a man he'd never met a day in his life, haunted by the urgent plea of his mother to “Do your best to impress him, my son.”

“You are no son of mine,” Bjarn spat. “Weakness doesn't flow from my seed but from your mother's Slavic womb. Such a waste.” Shaking his head, the giant of a man brushed by and disappeared amidst the tangle of trees and undergrowth.

The idea of facing his mother after failing her sat heavy in Bucky's stomach, like sour milk. Rather, he remained in the middle of the thicket and pulled his knees to his chest, arms wrapping around them in order to bury his face in his knees. Failing his mama left him feeling cold and sick after everything she'd done to protect and look after him.

Darkness finally drove him from his hiding spot, the warnings of his elders nipping at his heels that lingering in the forest after dark invited the ravenous wolves. So he picked up his pace, feet wet inside his woolen socks and leather turnshoe style boots but still warm despite the temperatures.

His mother awaited him in the doorway of their simple, one-room home. They shared it with his mother's family and their livestock in the winter months. She knew immediately how things had gone and opened her arms and thick, woolen cloak to pull him into her bosom.

“Boguslav, my treasured Boguslav.”

“I'm no good, Mama. He said--” His breath hitched in a hiccup. “He said I am weak because I wouldn't kill the doe. But she had a fawn, Mama. Papa Dmitrei says we aren't supposed to kill does who got fawns on the teat.”

“That's right, boy.” His mother's father was an old man with a spine bent from years of toil. He'd seen more than fifty winters, which made him one of the oldest men in town. “We must leave the does with fawns alone so there are deer next season to hunt and eat.”

“Come inside from the cold, my bright star.”

He allowed his mother to lead him into their little home, pausing to shake off snow from his cap and cloak. He sat next to the fire and accepted a cup of warm goat's milk from Grandmama Alvi and watched the family work. The women prepared a meal while the men repaired tools.

No one said much. They didn't scold him for failing to win the affections of the rich man they claimed was his father. His uncle snapped something about Bucky being too old for tears but was quickly hushed by the elders, who gave Bucky the first portion of pottage soup.

Truth was, he was the apple of Papa Dmitrei's eye, the bright star, the only male grandchild to survive beyond infancy and found himself doted upon often enough that hearing his peers in town chortle the next morning hurt. It certainly hadn't taken long for word to spread that one of Bjarn Geddason's bastards had turned out to be a disappointment, and the other boys took the opportunity for sport.

The fact that he didn't like killing and often brought home injured strays to nurse back to health didn't help with the softness of his reputation. They jeered that he would never become a warrior, would never trade or raid or own lands that would attract a suitable wife.

Attracting a suitable wife just didn't sound all that important to him. He found out why the following year when he spent the night with Rambi, another kid his age, in the barn waiting for a goat to kid. Rambi's hand slid inside Bucky's small-clothes and caressed his cock. Despite the thunder of his heart, he couldn't ignore the way his body came alive that night.

It happened again later that year, but they were caught with their mouths on each other by Bucky's mama. She didn't look disappointed. She didn't even look mad, but that night, Papa Dmitrei talked to him behind the wood pile about a man's responsibility to marry and produce children.

Papa Dmitrei explained that he wasn't in trouble and that no one would care if he found pleasure with other men as long as he married and made babies.

“Just don't go letting a man take you like a woman, my Boguslav. That's what men do to other men during war to prove their dominance. You make sure you act like a real man.”

Only Bucky had no interest in doing to a woman what he did to Rambi. He didn't tell anyone that, left it for some point in the future. After all, he was still too young and couldn't provide for a family yet.

Two winters later, when he was sixteen and nearly a grown man, Papa Dmitrei died. Sickness took him in the middle of the night, and Bucky was devastated. Then, everything changed. Uncle Bojan, who had never much liked him, inherited the house and livestock and forced Mama and Bucky onto the streets, claiming he wouldn't provide for a whore and her bastard offspring.

A woman alone in the world had few options to provide for herself let alone a young man, so Bucky left her in a brothel and promised to return.

“I'll come back, Mama,” he said, voice hitching. “I'll come back when I have lands of my own, and we'll be happy and provided for. I promise.”

“You will, my bright star. My heart goes with you.” She pulled him close for one last kiss pressed to his forehead.

“Mine stays with you,” he whimpered against her bosom.

Then he forced himself to pull away, shouldered his pack with what few belongings he owned, and tromped through the spring rain and thick mud of the streets of Kiev.


	2. One Miserable Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Bjarnson pledges loyalty to a Norse jarl in exchange for a spot on his longship and the opportunity to plunder the riches of Irish monasteries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic violence and death as one would witness during a Viking raid.

**903 A.D. The Coast Of Eire**

Chaos surrounded him. Smoke billowed from the stone monastery. Voices rolled like thunder through the settlement. Metal clanged against metal, and Bucky stood in the midst of it all, watching helplessly while dozens of his fellow ship-mates cut their way through what little resistance stood between them and the riches of bright, yellow gold awaiting them inside the monastery.

A man weighted down with thick, leather armor and carrying an ax charged him. It was entirely instinctual when Bucky ducked beneath the swing, the blade whistling through air just over his head. He put his shoulder into the attacker, using his greater weight to throw the enemy to the ground. The man's helmet came loose and rolled a few feet away.

Shouting, body thrumming with unspent energy, he cracked the hilt of his sword into his attacker's face. He did it again. And a third time. Until a spray of hot blood splattered across his cheek and the man's face was little better than a mess of bone, blood, and teeth.

He'd killed a man. The shock of it threatened to send him into catatonia.

Someone grabbed him from behind. He surged to his feet, sword poised to strike, only to find Arkady.

“Keep moving,” Arkady said. “No one will come back for you once the battle moves on.”

So he tried to regain his focus, stuck close to Arkady's heels, and moved into the next pocket of fighting. The citizens weren't prepared, that much was obvious. Few defenders rushed to meet them, and those who did were farmers or craftsmen, not fighters. They were still men defending their homes and families, though, and men fighting for their lives were desperate creatures. 

Bucky got separated from Arkady when a group of defenders rushed them from behind. He whirled and brought his sword up in time to intercept the oncoming blow from a war-hammer, feeling the impact reverberating all the way up his arm.

The man was huge, with a barrel chest and arms thickened by the blacksmith trade, and Bucky barely managed to avoid having his head caved in by a second blow. A third clipped his helmet. By that point, he was getting desperate. Two years working with a sword hadn't made him anything close to an expert, and he imagined the attacker could smell his fear.

It was the sourness in a whirlwind of scents dominated by the tang of blood.

He ducked under another blow and scrambled to get some distance between them only to find himself thrown against the wall of a building. His eyes widened. Something cold flushed his belly, but his enemy faltered at the last second, the head of an arrow, fired from behind, bursting through the front of his shoulder. It bought Bucky the time to come in under the man's defenses where his sword sank into a soft belly.

His ears still rang from the blow to his helmet. Its confines felt suffocating, like no matter how many breaths filled his lungs, he couldn't get enough air. A sound escaped him. The noise resembled the whimpering of an injured dog.

Fingers scrabbled with the strap of his helmet, and it finally came loose, allowed him to yank the helmet from his head. It fell from numb fingers. He braced hands against knees and panted for breath.

“Bucky, let's go,” shouted another Norseman.

Every ounce of willpower was necessary to keep from fleeing, but he finally responded, tightened his grip on his sword and followed after Egil. Together, they raced up the hill and entered into the monastery where their brothers and sisters had already begun the looting.

Death wasn't satisfied yet. It craved another soul.

Arkady, laughing, dragged a man from behind the altar. The man wore brown robes. The top of his head was shaved. Arkady forced the monk to his knees where some of the others kicked or spat at him. Their words were cruel, and Bucky would have been happy to ignore their revelry, to step outside and let them have their fun but not take part in it.

“This one gets on his knees to pray to his god. What god puts a man on his knees?” Arkady demanded. He pressed his palms together in imitation of the monk. “Does your god put you in the appropriate position to suck his cock?”

That got laughter from the others.

“We will teach you how to die like a man of the North. Bucky.”

Bucky hesitated on the balls of his feet before answering the command. Arkady was a Norwegian jarl, one rich enough to pay for the construction and maintenance of the Karve on which they sailed. The Karve was smaller than a standard longship but no less deadly with its ability to sail up rivers. Arkady fed them, gave them a bench on his ship, and allowed them a cut of the loot during each raid, so his commands were not to be ignored.

He took the sword Arkady offered to him.

A Dane called Cato kicked the monk and held out a sword. “Fight him. He will give you a good death. Let you die like a man.”

The monk clearly couldn't comprehend their language.

Arkady spoke in Latin, saying, “Bucky will teach you how to die like a man, not on your knees like a dog. Stand up. Fight him.”

The monk shook his head. He shook his head and threw the sword away, saying in Latin, “I have taken vows. I will not fight your man. If I am to die, I will meet God with clean hands.”

Bucky's belly trembled with anxiety. He knew what would come next and wanted no part of it. He was already shaking his head when Arkady snarled at him to give the monk what he wanted and to make it hurt. Killing in battle was one thing. Slaughtering a man on his knees and unwilling to fight back was something entirely different.

Memories of a doe and fawn returned to him.

“Kill him,” Arkady ordered again.

Bucky shook his head and started lowering the weapon, but the jarl moved faster than him, closed his hand around Bucky's wrist and drove his hand and the sword it gripped forward. The point tore muscle and broke bone as it punctured the monk's throat.

“When I give you an order,” Arkady murmured close to Bucky's ear, “you will obey. One day, you'll thank me for making a man out of you.”

Horror spread like cold honey through his body as he looked between the heap of flesh and bone on the floor and the blood on his sword. It was a visceral thing, watching life fade from the monk's eyes, leaving them flat and glassy in death. Such was the life he would need to live in order to gain property and a house of his own, in order to save his mother from indignity.


	3. In Black '44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of Arkady's karve dock in Viking Dublin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end of the chapter.

Dublin was a Viking settlement used for trade, its earthen and wooden structures more Scandinavian than Celtic, and it shared the river An Ruirthech with a Celtic settlement called Áth Cliath. Roads were little more than dirt lanes that had been churned to mud beneath the wheels of wagons and the hooves of horses. The air was heavy with the scents of human habitation: manure, the smelting of iron, tanneries, and too many unwashed bodies living in too small a place.

Bucky preferred the cleaner scents of rural Eire or the chill crispness of his former home near Kiev, but docking in Dublin wasn't his decision. They needed to take on supplies for the long voyage back to Norway where Arkady ruled over a collection of free men and their families. The loot wouldn't be divided until their successful return.

Mud splashed onto the wool strips wrapped around his legs from knee to ankle as he stepped off the dock, but he hadn't taken more than a few steps when the others shouted at him. Egil with his arm draped over Hilde's shoulders, hers slung around his waist, invited him to come drinking. But he had needs that couldn't be satisfied by strong drink and companionship.

“Later,” he responded.

Cato the Dane and Niilo the Fin snickered behind their fists, but it was Valder the Swede who said, “I think the lad prefers to satisfy his cock than drink with his family.”

The others agreed by spilling raucus laughter.

“Give it to her good, my lad,” continued Valder. “Leave her satisfied, and we will finally call you a man.”

“Leave him be,” Grethe the Icelander, interrupted. Her grizzled face held a hint of empathy.

Cato ignored her and asked, “Have you given it to a woman before, lad?”

Niilo said, “Mayhaps he needs pointers. We should watch him, make sure his cock is big enough to fill her up. Make sure he doesn't spill too soon and leave her wanting.”

Bucky ignored the mixture of Scandinavian languages and turned to be on his way. The sounds of their laughter and the shouted encouragements trailed off the farther away he got. Their jeers weren't a new phenomenon. He was the youngest serving aboard Arkady's karve and bound to be the object of their amusement until he proved himself in battle and at sea.

The buildings transitioned from Scandinavian construction to some style caught in between the various cultures who made their homes in Dublin. At the end of an alley, he found an old, Celtic-style roundhouse. Its short walls were made from wattle and daub, and it was crowned by a conical roof covered in thatching. It looked older than all the buildings that sprang up around it.

Bucky ducked under the door mantel and entered the dim interior. A few torches burned to illuminate the foyer where a man sat behind a counter. An establishment like this wouldn't think to purchase clean-burning candles, so the air was heavy with smoke.

He plunked down the required Viking coinage and told the man he preferred ass to cunt.

Down a narrow hall, he opened a door into a miniscule room barely large enough to contain a bed and a washing stand. The young man inside was willowy, his pale skin dusted with freckles, and fiery red hair pulled back into a long braid. He wore rouge on his cheeks and paint on his lips, and his eyes were rimmed with black kohl. The soft smirk on his mouth deepened.

“You returned,” Alpin said in a mixture of Scandinavian and Gaelic. He came up onto his knees and tugged at the tie fastening a breechcloth around his waist. It pooled on the straw-filled mattress beneath him, his genitals already flushed.

“Yes,” he agreed before he dropped his cloak over the back of a chair.

“Glad,” he said with a smile. “You want do me? My ass long for you.”

Bucky shook his head. Memories of Rambi pushing inside him, that all-consuming pressure lighting up his insides, had haunted him for months. He needed it like he needed air.

“You want me do you.” Alpin's grin brightened. “I have not for long time.”

Bucky's belt hit the floor. A quick tug removed the wool kyrtill he wore over a linen tunic. The linen was frayed, worn thin in spots, and would need replacing soon. He draped it over a chair before sitting to remove his shoes and the wrappings around his lower legs.

When he finally lowered the wide-legged trousers that were more Rus than Viking, it left him in his small-clothes, linen braies and stockings held in place with garters.

Alpin sighed, a breathy sound full of wonder, before reaching for him, fingertips grazing down the trail of hair leading beneath his braies. Bucky followed the caress with his gaze, watched as delicate fingers picked apart the knot holding his braies in place.

The linen had barely touched the ground before his cock was being drawn into the wet warmth of a waiting mouth. He groaned. His head dropped back, and he buried fingers into the vibrant hair in front of him. It was like being washed clean, like he left the violence of battle and death behind.

He lowered himself to the bed and allowed himself to relax into Alpin's ministrations. There was an artful grace to the way Alpin worked his cock to hardness. He didn't rush things. The oil he dipped his fingers in was warm when they eased into Bucky, when they found his prostate and brought him to the brink but refused to allow him to topple.

A groan escaped, and he turned onto his stomach when prodded. Then came the pressure, the gentle burn of a cock pressing into him. He moved with the motion, pressing his ass into the curve of the prostitute's groin. It overwhelmed him, and he reminded himself to take a breath, reminded himself not to become so lost in the heady experience as to forget his surroundings.

Hands gripped his hips when the cock inside him retreated only to return with a harder push, accompanied by the slap of flesh against flesh, and he whined, whined and curled fingers into the linen on which he knelt. His heavy cock swung between his thighs and grazed the mattress.

And it was right there. He held his breath in anticipation, but the door opened and slammed into the wall, and Arkady was suddenly speaking. “Bucky, I have information--”

Silence.

Bucky squeezed his eyes closed. “Arkady?” He didn't dare look, feared what he would see if he turned and faced the man who held his livelihood in his hands.

Something dark coated Arkady's voice. “Plans have changed. Be back on board in an hour.”

“Fine.”

The door closing behind Arkady caused Bucky to flinch. He pushed at Alpin to make him to move and rolled into a seated position. The prostitute pressed up against his side and purred into his ear.

“It not hour yet. We have time.”

They had time, but the damage was already done. He had no way of knowing what he would be returning to, whether Arkady would say anything about what he'd seen. It was a stupid thing to wonder. A longship was much too small for secrets. There was no doubt everyone else would have heard about the compromising position he'd been caught in by the time he returned.

He waved off the prostitute before dressing, didn't even look at him until he heard a soft whimper and finally turned to find fear clouding Alpin's sky-blue eyes.

“If I not please...” He dragged a thumb across his neck.

“You pleased. Tell your master, you pleased me well.”

That said, he left but didn't go directly to the docks. Rather, he wound his way through the settlement until he reached the top of a hillock that allowed him to look over the surrounding river basin. Numerous lights danced in the distance, and farther away, the glow of fires from Áth Cliath beckoned.

He wouldn't find work there. Nothing there would earn him the coin and land that would provide for his mother or a wife and children of his own. Until he had those, he couldn't call himself a man, he couldn't prove to Bjarn Geddason that he was worth something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is outed against his will when Arkady interrupts him mid-coitus.


	4. When the Forward Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and the crew of Arkady's karve weather a storm and experience trouble on the coast of Wessex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence and minor character death.

“Put your backs into it!” shouted Arkady from the stern of the ship where he manned the rudder. “Are you men?”

The crew called “Yea” in one voice.

“Or are you like Bucky? Men pretending to be men?”

Bucky winced where he was bent over his oar. He winced and tried to ignore the jeers from his fellow shipmates. Things had been difficult for him since Arkady had found him taking the submissive position to a thrall. They wouldn't soon forget, and earning back his masculinity would come at a cost.

Grethe, who sat at the oar behind him, said, “Keep rowing, Bjarnson. Ignore them, and keep rowing.”

Waves thrashed the vessel, tossing it this way and that, as they fought to bring the karve inland to shelter from the storm. Barely audible above the sounds of the waves was the thump and drag of twelve oars fighting against the current.

Niilo the Fin, a bear of a man with a chest made for wrestling started a chant, an old Finnish song that talked about a warrior and his seven sons returning home to find his homestead overrun and his wife having died protecting their youngest children. The beat was rhythmic, the type of song that kept a crew rowing in sync and made the ship more efficient.

Egil picked it up on the heave, twelve bodies pulling against their oars to send the ship surging forward through the water. Then came Grimvolde the Norse on the lift as they pulled the blades of their oars from the water, and Cato on the forward stroke followed by Hilde on the dip as their blades slashed the water and prepared for another heave.

Soon, all twelve voices raised together over the sound of the waves and the thunder and the wind, and it didn't matter that the crew thought badly of him. It didn't matter they gave him the worst jobs or that Valder had suggested Bucky should bend over for him and take it. The only thing that mattered was bringing the ship into the sheltered cove and hunkering down until the weather improved.

They passed through a narrow inlet, and when they were finally protected from the winds and slashing rain, they leaned over their oars and panted their exertion. In those moments, it didn't matter who gave or received or from which nation they originated; they were all rendered masses of trembling muscles and quaking fear.

Arkady got them moving again in no time, and they jumped overboard to haul the ship onto the shore. It's shallow keel allowed for overland portages and relatively easy beaching. They got the ship settled and shook out numb arms and fingers, and if Valder rammed his shoulder into Bucky's on the way past, Bucky was willing to ignore it until he was in a better position.

Arkady commanded, “Set a watch. Two on duty while the rest sleep. Be wary, my lads. These shores aren't friendly to the dragon prow.” He indicated by waving a hand toward the grinning dragon that served as a figurehead. “They'll cut us down if given half the chance.”

It was Grimvolde, Arkady's half-brother and second in command, who shouted, “Grethe, Bucky, you're on middle watch.”

Bucky wanted to spit. Of course they were. Never mind the fact they'd taken middle shift ever since he'd been caught with his ass full of cock. The look he offered Grethe was one of guilt. It was his fault the crew punished them, and she was a victim only because she'd chosen to stand up for him.

Grethe shrugged and flashed him a smile that made the scars on her face stand out starkly. Then, shrugging, she grabbed her satchel from beneath her bench and disappeared for a few moments. When she returned, she crouched by the ocean and rinsed out bloody cloth.

“Sleep tight, lads,” Niilo called. “The leviathan will surely find us now that she's bloodied the water. You women and your bleeding time. It's a week of nothing but moaning about your discomfort and the smell of your blood. We should keep you all knocked up and escape the torment.”

“Watch your teeth, Fin,” Hilde snapped. “There's four of us what's ready to knock 'em down your throat if you aren't careful.”

Half a dozen of the men broke out into laughter.

But what really shut the Fin up was the murderous look on Grethe's face. She could freeze the desert sun with a look from her icy eyes and didn't need words to impress upon Niilo how narrow was the path upon which he trod. After grabbing a couple pouches of food, she prodded Bucky into action, and they went off to find a place to bed down.

They got a few hours of sleep before Cato and Grimvolde roused them to take the middle watch. Being woken and then attempting to go back to sleep was what made middle watch the shit. He stifled a yawn behind his hand and trudged out to meet Grethe, who welcomed him with a pouch of dried fruit.

He ate a few orange slices and some salted fish and thought the night might pass without incident, but somewhere near the end of their watch, he heard the shuffle of movement in the forest. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Another crack of limbs saw them slinking from their hiding place in opposite directions to catch the intruder between them.

A deer lurched through the underbrush in an explosion of noise. It veered around Bucky and darted into darkness, and the release of tension was enough to make his hand shake. Laughter bubbled from his chest; it was just a silly deer.

At least it was until Grethe called out a warning that he mimicked in the hopes of rousing the others. Before the last note left his lungs, he was dashing through the underbrush. He found her in a desperate struggle against a half dozen Saxon soldiers as the sounds of battle dispersed the quiet of the surrounding forest.

There wasn't time to consider his action. He threw himself at the nearest warrior in the hopes of distracting at least some of them from Grethe. It worked a little too well. Saxon women weren't known for their fighting skills, so it made sense they would consider her the least dangerous of the two.

He ducked beneath a spear and twisted around an incoming sword. His own blade was turned aside by a quick parry, and the fight promised to be short and bittersweet until Arkady and the others burst through the underbrush. Never before had he been so grateful to see his companions.

The fighting turned brutal and chaotic. Everything became a blur until he wasn't sure who stood in front of him, whose sword he parried, or whose ax whistled past his head. All he could do was move. Just keep moving until his sword encountered resistance, until he lost track of his surroundings and tripped over a body.

Before he knew what was happening, he was on the ground, a spear punching into the dirt just shy of his head. Arkady intercepted the second blow, his bulk throwing the Saxon off balance and sending him to the ground where his sword ravaged the enemy's torso.

Arkady snapped, “Should have thrown you from the ship the second I caught you taking it in the ass, but I thought I could turn you into a man. I won't save you again.”

The words hit harder than the spear ever would have.

Papa Dmitrei's phantom voice filled his head. _“Just don't go letting a man take you like a woman. That's what men do to other men during war. You make sure you behave like a real man.”_

Gritting his teeth, he pushed back to his feet, adjusted his grip on the handle of his sword, and figured out how to move. When he punched his sword through a Saxon's defenses, he didn't shy away from the feeling of metal piercing soft flesh. He couldn't. Men killed. Men fought, killed, and fucked. 

But the lesson didn't take until he heard Grethe cry out and turned to find her backed against a tree. Something broke inside him. He screamed in an effort to distract her attackers. Then he charged. Desperation speared him through the knot of struggling bodies, but he was too late.

An enemy's ax bit into Grethe's shoulder and buried deep.

Bucky was near enough to feel her blood splatter his face when the Saxon ripped his weapon free. His glance met hers, and that second felt like minutes. The grim acceptance in her expression ripped through his own innards because theirs was a life of violence. The chances of any of them living to old age were slim, the world too cruel a place for the softness that allowed a deer and her fawn to live.

His weight bore the Saxon to the ground, and he ripped a knife from his belt. The enemy struggled, brought his arm up to block Bucky's downward thrust, but it didn't save him, and when Bucky finally drove his blade into the Saxon's face, nothing of that soft creature remained.

He stabbed the Saxon over and over again, kept stabbing him until his back ached and Grimvolde grabbed his raised arm to prevent another blow.

“I think you killed him, lad.”

Tremors made his hands shake. He dropped the knife and scrabbled backward where he sat panting. He swiped the back of his hand across his face; it came away bloody. He shook, and he was cold, and he shook, and he couldn't breathe, and he shook...

Finally, Grethe's coughing bled through the storm inside his head, and he shoved to his feet to dash over to her. Hilde knelt beside her, so Bucky dropped to his knees on her other side.

Her wound was hideous. The entire shoulder joint gaped away from the rest of her body, a mixture of blood and bits of bone that shifted with every one of her labored breaths. She reached toward him.

He grabbed her hand.

“Tonight you'll drink with the valkyrie in Valhalla,” Hilde said.

“There lies my husband,” Grethe rasped.

“There lies my brother,” Bucky said.

“There lies my father,” Arkady said.

Each and every member of their crew stepped forward to announce those who would be waiting to welcome Grethe into their fold. They'd all lost someone to the violence of their age: a husband, a wife, a father, a sister. Those who died in battle went with the valkyrie to Valhalla. Those who died honorably but outside of battle went to Hela in Helheim.

When she took her final breath, Bucky closed her eyes. He didn't weep; none of them did. They only regained their feet and built for her a small funeral pyre on which her body burned.

Standing at the fire, watching someone he respected turn into ash, it was the last time Bucky was innocent, the last time that soft, sensitive boy drew breath. That Bucky burned up on the pyre as surely as Grethe's body did.


	5. Was Told to Sit Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky spends three years fighting in the Danelaw in England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic violence, minor character death.
> 
> Note: I'm having some personal things to deal with, so I'm going to have to slow down posting until things clear up and my stress levels subside. Thanks for your patience!

Half the crew wanted to leave for Norway. The other half counseled Arkady to stay and explore the rich environment of Wessex. In the end, Arkady took them north from the kingdom of Wessex into the Danish ruled Danelaw where they were introduced to the new king of East Anglia, a man who'd taken the name Guthrum II after his coronation. 

Viking Danelaw was always in flux. They won new territory or lost old territory in the ever-growing conflict between Wessex and the Danelaw. Just last year, King Eorhic, successor to King Guthrum the First, had been killed in battle, leaving his seat open for the claiming.

In short, the new king was desperately in need of fighters in his bid to reclaim old territories and legitimize his rule, so they were greeted with many accolades and invited to dine at the king's table. It was an imposing piece of furniture inside an imposing wooden structure of the size Bucky hadn't ever seen. He found himself to be a fish swimming upstream with an injured tail and preferred to keep his tongue behind his teeth rather than speaking up.

Arkady, always the gregarious sort when paired against someone he wanted to impress, spoke enough for the rest of them and was in the middle of a describing their victories on the coast of Eire when another man arrived. He was broad and fair-headed with a square jaw and the sort of body language that insisted he was a man of means and power.

“Pierce, my good sir. Join us,” King Guthrum called from the high table. “Let me introduce my newest friend, Arkady. He is jarl of a small land-holding in Norway, but we mustn't judge a man by the size of his holdings but by the number of men he can command, yes?”

“I bring news from Eire,” Pierce said while taking a seat to the king's left.

“What news? It must surely be powerfully dull to have your face darkened by a coming storm.”

“Our brethren have been driven from Dublin.”

Everyone in earshot sat up straighter, including Bucky.

“Dublin is no longer under Norwegian control?” Arkady asked. “We came from there not two months ago after a successful raid on one of Eire's monasteries.”

“Only some small number of days have passed since the battle. Several hundred Celts attacked and overran the city, forcing the Norwegians to flee or be put to death. It is not--” Pierce paused, his expression full of trouble, as though he had seen more than any man hoped.

“They took the heads of the Norse dead and lashed their bodies to their horses. Flies came to corpses in droves. My scouts tell me it is the work of Druids.”

“Eire is full of Christians,” King Guthrum spat the comment.

Someone nearby whispered about Guthrum the First becoming baptized to fulfill his peace treaty with Alfred the Great, who had become something of a sainted figure in Wessex for holding back the Northmen hordes and bringing Christianity to the Danes. Christianity spread like wildfire. Bucky had heard of the religion while sailing with Arkady. Many of his Viking brethren were converting in droves, but the thought of kneeling before one, all-powerful god made him sick inside.

“They are. They pray to Saint Brigid and Saint Patrick, but there are still pockets of the old faith. The Norwegians will be eager to reclaim Dublin. If we were join with them, think of the possibilities. We could take the whole of the island, build a much stronger base from which to launch attacks against Wessex and Mercia,” Pierce continued.

“What is your business in Eire?” asked Arkady.

It was King Guthrum who answered. “Alexander took possession of the Rogers lands in Eire after their king succumbed to warfare with a neighboring túath.”

“He left behind a widow and a son, but the son was much too young to govern the lands, and the widow too broken by her husband's death to defend their túath.”

“Whatever happened to the son?”

“No one knows. There is a silly saying passed down through the people that he bears a marking resembling a shield and will return to reclaim his lands and restore the dignity of his household.”

“You don't believe in prophecy?” Arkady asked.

“I am a man of reason,” Pierce responded. “Leave tales of fairies and prophecies to children. What say you, King Guthrum? Will you help to conquer Eire? They are fruit ripened for the plucking, too divided to resist a strong invasion. A man who with enough forces at his back could unite the various túatha into one kingdom.”

“Let me think on it, good sir. These decisions mustn't be made rashly.”

Guthrum the Second didn't order his troops into Eire, a decision that sent Alexander Pierce away in a rage, shouting about the misfortunes of ignorant Danes possessing a crown. Neither did Arkady choose to side with Pierce. He threw their lot in with King Guthrum, and for the next two years, Bucky's life was molded by war against the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms.

Fighting in England was much different than short raids along the coast of Eire. Eire was made up of numerous small factions. There was no sense of nationalistic pride. They were easily divided. Not so with those who made their homes in Wessex and Mercia. Kingdoms in England were organized. They had standing armies. They were blades honed by war to push back Scandinavia. 

From the moment he first surged toward the enemy, he knew this was the sort of warfare that changed men, the sort that made them strong. It was no place for sensitive boys, so he hardened. His hide toughened. He became scarred. 

His feet carried him through the mud and the blood. They dug into the earth to hold his position as Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian bodies collided in a brutal bark of thunder. Arkady called for a shield wall, so he pivoted and brought his wooden, round shield into position to provide an impenetrable wall against their enemy, relying on the men and women on either side of him to help defend his flanks.

A spear point slipped through the narrow opening between his shield and the man next to him. It's razor edge opened flesh along his shoulder, but the injury wasn't deep, so when the push came, he was ready. They threw their weight into the shield wall and pushed into the Anglo-Saxon defenses, breaking them apart and allowing Scandinavians to flood behind the enemy's forward line.

Screams of the dying, wails of grief from loved ones in the follower's camp came after war was done, when people picked through the carnage to separate wounded from dead. He would have ignored it were it not for Hilde's voice raising above the rest.

He found her hunched over her husband, Egil. There wasn't much recognizable about his face, not after having been mangled by an ax. Kneeling beside her, Bucky placed a bloodied hand upon Egil's chest. He said, “Tonight, you'll drink with the valkyrie in Valhalla. There lies my brother.”

“There lies my husband,” Hilde said.

“There lies my father,” added Arkady.

“There lies my wife,” said Grimvolde.

That night, they burned Egil, one of numerous fires dotting the countryside, and another part of Bucky scattered with the embers dispersed by a chill breeze. It was the part that loved and wanted love in return. Love was useless. It brought only misery. It was a fragile thing in a world built only for the hardy, too easily broken.

The next day, they went back to war to drive soldiers from Mercia across the contested border. Rain beat down upon them and muffled the sounds of combat. It made keeping one's footing near impossible, and more than once, he nearly lost his head when his feet slipped from beneath him.

At the end of the day, he was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to slip inside the tent he shared with Niilo and rid himself of the mud and the blood. He did not expect King Guthrum to demand his attendance inside the royal tent. The young man standing beside the king was one he recognized. He'd saved the youth's neck during the height of battle.

“This is my son,” King Guthrum said. “My legacy lives and breathes because of you. We owe you a debt, one we would fulfill with this gift.”

Bucky opened the wooden chest a servant brought and found inside a shirt of lamellar. It was comprised of individual metal plates called lamellae. Each plate was stitched to its neighboring plates with finely woven cords of silk. The craftsmanship was stunning and bore traces of East Asian accents. 

“Your gift is more than I deserve, Majesty,” he responded.

“Nothing is more precious than my legacy.” The king waved his hand in dismissal.

Earning a king's favor, fired his blood, so instead of disappearing inside his tent and resting, he washed himself inside the earthen structure that had been erected as a bath house. A servant threw hot rocks inside water to produce copious amounts of steam, while Bucky used cloth and basin to rinse away the evidence of war. He paid special attention to scraping out the dried blood from beneath his nails. It still startled him when Anglo-Saxon women commented on the cleanliness of Scandinavian men.

Clean, dry, and wearing fresh garments, he made his way into the camp of followers where he attracted much interest from the prostitutes and thralls given to the fighters for their amusement. He didn't like the idea of taking a slave to bed; slaves had no choice in who bedded them, so he paid a couple of coins to a lovely Black-Moor man whose father had married a Scandinavian woman in the court of a northern Danish king called Sigur Snake-Eyes, who was said to be the grandson of Ragnar Lothbrok.

He took the young man back to his tent and lost himself in the feeling of their naked skin pressed together, in the hard body beneath him and the clutch of the prostitute's asshole around his cock. The wet warmth cradled him as he eased inside. It made him feel soft again, reminded him how to be delicate in the midst of war. 

When he neared his completion, he hitched the prostitute's leg over his shoulder and stroked his cock in time with Bucky's thrusts and marveled at their differences. The boy's skin was dark and smooth. Bucky's was hard and pale. He was thick with muscle where the boy was slim, streamlined like a salmon that ran upriver.

Then his peak was there, and oh, how his body shuddered. Violence drained out of him. The need to be strong left him. In those moments post-orgasm, all men were equalized, reduced to mewling kittens in the aftermath of their greatest bliss, and the prostitute allowed him to rest.

He draped himself over that warm body and felt smooth hands skimming across his naked back. A litany of quiet words in a language he didn't know spilled across his ears, and he melted. He melted into the warmth of another person. He didn't need to be Boguslav Bjarnson in that moment.

Just a week later, it was back to war. He donned his new armor to stand beside Niilo on the field of battle, scarred hand gripping the handle of his weapon. Nothing could change the first breath of battle, the static in the air as their commanders called for the charge.

He dug in his heels and surged forward beside his brothers and sisters. Battle was strangely intimate. Men and women were in each other's faces, close enough they could smell what their enemy had eaten that morning. The enemy's sweat sprayed in droplets against their cheeks.

It meant he could see the fear in the eyes of a soldier he felled with a mighty swing of his sword, steel ravaging flesh and cracking bone. The man stared up at him from the ground in horror. Those eyes, they pleaded for mercy. The enemy's hands came up into a position of supplication as though to silently ask “Please let me live. My family needs me to survive.”

Bucky's expression didn't twist because he had hardened into a man. There was no hesitation as his blade pierced the soldier's throat, the only mercy granted being the swiftness of the enemy's death. He didn't even stop for the space of a blink. Rather, he ripped his sword free and moved on to the next.

Because war wasn't a place for the sensitive boy who refused to shoot a doe with her fawn.

People of the Danelaw had a name for him after that battle; they called him Winter's Soldier. Winter's Soldier was a brutal man whose heart felt no mercy and who slept dreamless nights. He was a man who cut himself off from anything but the drive to survive the next battle.

Not even injury could crack the icy facade he developed.

Later, King Guthrum ordered them into combat against an army made up of infantrymen from Mercia. No one told them Mercia held the higher ground and superior numbers. Nothing prepared them for fighting in a deluge, howling winds tearing at their clothes and shields.

Bucky was given command of a squadron of Scandinavians fresh off the boat from Denmark. They were green and had little fighting experience but were filled with youthful exuberance. And arrogance. That arrogance proved their downfall in battle.

When they charged the hill, arrows rained down upon them. The first one struck, felling a Danish soldier, and splattering the man behind him with his blood. Panic threatened their ranks, and Bucky shouted over the commotion to call for a shield wall. It was slow to form and weak to invasion.

Forces from Mercia shattered their line as the shield wall collapsed. Enemy soldiers flooded in, a tidal wave rushing trough a broken dam, and Bucky made attempts to gather his youthful comrades into some sort of order.

They broke ranks, and a Saxon sword cracked Bucky's shield. Hot pain sliced through his flesh as the ax bit deeply into his left arm. He couldn't swallow his howl, could barely remain on his feet, and looked to the skies seeking the valkyrie. Dying in combat was good. It meant he would sup in the halls of Valhalla where brave men could live forever.

But the killing blow didn't come. Grimvolde rushed up the hill at the head of a large fighting force to reinforce their the frontal lines. He grabbed Bucky by the shoulder.

“If you die today, you'll die a man,” said Grimvolde.

It was the highest praise anyone could give. Knowing he'd been forgiven for his earlier transgression, forgiven for taking it like a woman, straightened his shoulders. He stood taller, rallied his flagging strength, and cradled his injured arm against his stomach. The one thing he did not do was retreat back to the safety of their camp.

They lost the battle, but any fighter of experience could tell it was the sort of confrontation they'd had no chance of winning. King Guthrum's lack of judgment cost the lives of more than a hundred Scandinavians, but that didn't seem to bother His Highness. He still supped in the finest tent on the finest of place settings and hailed himself a brilliant commander.

And Bucky? Infection set in. The surgeon, a Moorish man from northern Africa, wanted to amputate his arm. Bucky refused, and when he became delirious with fever, when his cries rang out from inside his tent and Arkady ordered Niilo and the others to chop wood for his funeral pyre, Grimvolde upheld his wishes. His arm wasn't amputated.

The fever eventually abated as the infection cleared, and while he might never regain full use of the arm, it was still better than having no arm at all. 

After, when his slow recovery allowed him to have visitors again, Niilo called him a fool. Cato called him blessed by the gods, and Arkady called him a man.

King Guthrum ultimately lost the campaign, but it didn't seem to bother him much. Sometimes kings were expected to go to war even if they failed to gain new lands. Hundreds of men died. The soil became rich on the blood of humanity, but going to war proved King Guthrum was strong and wouldn't shy away from conflict. It seemed much too high a cost to pay for one man's vanity, yet their rewards for fighting in the Danelaw far outweighed the risk.

The king showered them with coin, wine, the finest of silks and brocade. Bucky earned more through one campaign than Papa Dmitrei had earned in his lifetime. But the landholdings? Those went to Arkady, who rightfully claimed them for being their liege lord.

Bucky walked through the Danelaw wearing luxurious clothing and armor. He received the accolades of those around him. Svelte young men sought his affections, and he took to bed a slew of lovers, both prostitutes and young men from rich households. No one looked at him differently as long as the men he courted were smaller and younger than him. Small men, it was assumed, took it up the ass much more greedily than larger men.

But expensive clothes, weaponry, and his pick of lovers weren't landholdings. No woman would consent to marry him and provide him with heirs unless he had the land with which to provide for their future. After all, there was only so long a man could expect to live the warring lifestyle before old age ended him on the battlefield. 

But everything changed again the following spring when he turned nineteen. It was his third year in the Danelaw, and he was becoming restless with inactivity. Arkady asked every member of his karve to convert to Christianity by being baptized. Most of the crew agreed. They went under the water proud Northmen and came out men who went to their knees for their god.

Bucky didn't. It wasn't that he was a pious man. He rarely thought about matters that weren't earthly in nature, but priests and monks had been whispering to King Guthrum about men who openly courted the affections of other men. Those sorts of men were an abomination unto God, and he couldn't wrap his head around any deity that cared what he did with his own body or how he sought his pleasures.

The others pressured him to convert. They looked to him to set an example for other men of his kind by denouncing his sins. Impressionable boys might look up to him as a symbol of success, after all, but he refused and parted company with Arkady and the others, taking passage on another longship heading back to Scandinavia.

At the port of Birka in Sweden, he met a golden-haired man of such size and breadth he could block the setting sun. The man introduced himself as Thorir, and he owned a skeid longship with a crew of seventy. Their ship mainly engaged in long-distance trade, but they'd recently lost several rowers to an unexpected storm, so he was looking for more crew.

His new shipmates were quite the eclectic collection. Volstagg the Norse greeted him with a bear hug. Fandral the Fin looked at him from toe to crown with a suggestive gaze. Sifrir the Norse acknowledged him with a nod without taking her arm from around Brunnhilde. 

Hogun was not Scandinavian but a Tunumiit man from Greenland. He led Bucky to the oar they would be rowing together. Bucky stowed his bag beneath the bench, took hold of the oar, and joined in when Valgrim the Norse beat a large drum to which they timed their strokes, strokes that took him into the next phase of his life.


	6. When He Asked That His Men Be Withdrawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets to know his new crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out.

Gentle waves lapped against the keel of the skeid. Valgrim the Silent was silent, his drum untouched at the bow of the ship as the crimson sail caught an easterly wind and carried them across the waters. 

Some people were gathered around a game of hneftafl with its square board and colored pegs. Lokir was there, engaged in a battle of strategy against Sifrir. As normal, Brunnhilde sat beside Sifrir, one arm draped over her companion's shoulders, fingers dragging lazily through Sifrir's black hair.

Bucky understood that they were together. They were a matched pair. One didn't go anywhere without the other. The part of him he thought dead experienced a jolt of jealousy that they had found mates in each other and were able to openly display their affection when he hadn't and couldn't.

The game didn't hold his interest, though; Volstagg did. He was a bear of a man with red hair and an impressive beard. He was also the gregarious sort, the type to spin stories of Thorir's legendary exploits for the crew's entertainment. A knot of people gathered around him, and Bucky was content to sit mending a shirt and listening to the tale.

“Then Brunnhilde the Drunken--”

From across the ship, Brunnhilde made a vulgar sound and shouted, “If they had to listen to you all through the day complaining about you empty belly, they would be drunkards, too!”

Laughter followed her comment.

“If I might be allowed to continue,” he began, “I was about to tell them of how you met Thorir and your lovely wife.” Volstagg pressed a hand to his heart and inclined his head toward Sifrir. Then, his hands settling on his belly, he leaned toward the people surrounding him and began to speak. “It happened, they say, during a trading voyage to the lands of the Greeks.”

Bucky never took his eyes away from his mending, but he found himself falling into the threads of the tale and how Brunnhilde had captured Thorir in the name of the Grandmaster. The Grandmaster was a purveyor of fighting men and attempted to rebuild the gladiatorial games of ancient Rome. He'd taken one look at Thorir and announced he would fight against the champion, a man of epic proportions and legendary fighting skill who called himself The Hulk.

“One thing the Grandmaster hadn't planned was how Thorir and the Hulk were old comrades, so our leader raises his fist in the air and cries 'I knowest this man. He is a comrade. We have performed many labors together!'”

Those sitting enraptured by the tale laughed over Volstagg's melodramatic performance. Even Bucky felt the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Trust me, friends, when I say to you that the battle was epic. They fought back and forth until sweat drowned their eyes and their bodies groaned with the efforts of their movements.”

He raced back and forth across the deck re-enacting the battle, how Hulk had attempted to use his superior strength to pin Thorir to the dirt only to have Thorir plant a massive fist on the ground and push himself back to standing. At one point, he threw himself against mast and crumpled to the decking, their fearless leader seemingly beaten by the monster of the Gurjara Pratihara Empire, but he didn't stay down.

Just as the crowds celebrated another victory by the Hulk, Thorir arose and fought his way to victory, no thanks to Lokir, who worked behind the scenes to fill his pockets through attempting to sell The Mighty Thorir to the Grandmaster despite his victory.

That was when Bucky finally glanced up. Thorir laughed along with the others after sparing the briefest glance to Lokir, who hunched his shoulders, and Bucky wondered if the truth didn't exist somewhere beneath Volstagg's wild accusations. The crew seemed to do that a lot, force Lokir into the shadow of his older brother and remind him of his inadequacies.

Thorir was the jovial sort, but when it came to disciplining his crew and fostering equality amongst them, he proved lesser skilled. He paid zero attention to the interpersonal relationships around him, and Bucky figured the only reason his ship hadn't been taken from him was because of the unwavering loyalty of Valgrim and Heimdall, the two most imposing men on the ship.

Perhaps Thorir was just that confident in his position. Maybe he was the oblivious sort. Whatever the reason, Lokir wound up fielding the brunt of the jokes in comparison to his older, stronger brother.

Normally, Bucky would have stayed out of it. He had no clout with the crew and could easily find himself wrong-footed in the ever-changing world of ship politics, but he didn't believe the rumors, and his belief was proved justified when they made port in Constantinople.

He pulled guard duty along with Lokir and a handful of others. Their job was to protect the cargo overnight while the rest of the crew went ashore to attend to their own leisure. In the morning, the harbor master would inspect the cargo and allow it to be off-loaded.

Thieves raided in the small hours of the night. Bucky didn't hear them over the soft lapping of water against the ship's hull, so it was Lokir who shouted an alarm and brought attention to the infiltration. The cargo was never in any real danger given the small invasion force and the strength of those left aboard. He wasn't called Winter's Soldier for nothing. Three years fighting in the Danelaw left him well-equipped for handling a group of rogues.

A shout from behind whipped him around, sword raised, only to find a thief poised to strike, a thief who crumpled to the ground with one of Lokir's daggers in his back. Bucky ripped the knife free and returned it to its owner with a nod of thanks.

They rolled the bodies overboard and restored order well before dawn when the others returned. It was left to Oleg the Swede to recount the night's happenings, at which point, Hogun spat something about Lokir fighting like a woman. Lokir's expression gave nothing away, but his posture sagged, and Bucky couldn't have been more angry at his oar-mate.

“Like a woman? There was more blood on his daggers than yours last night,” he spat.

Volstagg, who boarded with an arm draped over the shoulders of Dagr the Norse, said with a laugh, “Best to watch your tongue, Hogun, lest Sifrir and Brunnhilde hear you cast such aspersions against the fighting styles of womankind.”

“They are women who fight with the heart of men,” Hogun continued.

“What does it matter how anyone fights when the result is the same?” Bucky shot back.

The brewing argument eased only when Heimdall moved between them, the scent of black vetiver and spices following behind him. He looked at each man and ordered Bucky and the others to take their shore leave while the cargo was being off-loaded.

Valgrim moved behind Heimdall, Hugin and Munin tattooed on each cheek of Valgrim's face. For a moment, Bucky was sure he saw one of the inky tattoos move but ignored it upon taking in the walls of Constantinople. He passed through the Theodosian Walls, a double-wall fortification completed in the fifth century, and then the original wall built by Constantine the First.

His head tilted back and back and back some more, awed by the fortified gates that had protected the city from invasion since its conception. The truth was he'd never seen a city so complex before. Wooden walls and stone buildings were the norm in most of the world, and even those were rare, but to stand in the face of such ingenuity left him speechless.

For most of the morning, he strolled through cobbled streets, basking in the anonymity of being surrounded by so much humanity, overwhelmed by the chaotic press of smells and sounds, but he paused before the Hagia Sophia. There was one thing to be said about Christianity and the god men prayed to while on their knees: he knew how to inspire works of supreme beauty.

Eventually, though, he grew tired of seeing the sights and partaking in the street food. Finding a brothel that catered to his particular interests wasn't difficult, not even in a city whose emperors had converted to Christianity long ago. One only needed to ask the right sort of people.

So it was nearing evening when he approached a building topped by red, clay tiles. The sign out front was in a language Bucky didn't know and couldn't have read considering he didn't know his own letter let alone that of a foreign tongue. Several men sat in the foyer engaged in a game. One looked up.

“Your business here?”

“The company of a willing companion.”

“Cunt or cock?”

“Cock. The best you have to offer. Your companions. Are they thralls?”

“What kind of establishment do you take me for? All my pets are professionally trained and enjoy the fruits of their labors. I cannot ask my clientele to enjoy the intimate sort of relationship we offer with a slave,” the man said, pure disgust in his voice.

Bucky handed over the required coins and found himself directed to the top floor and a door decorated with a bird. One thing he wasn't used to was being surrounded by the perfumed walls. Places that traded in sin and sex weren't necessarily the cleanest or most well-maintained, but this place had an air of expense about it. A high-end brothel, then.

He wasn't expecting to knock and open the door into a room with an expansive bed surrounded by gauzy curtains. Smoke curled lazily from a dish of incense that infused the room with a pleasant musk. The body lounging on the bed behind the curtains moved as a man emerged.

He was naked, and it was like looking at fine gold.


	7. And the Generals Gave Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steovan meets a new client who makes his duties seem like less of a chore, but Bucky is the prickly sort caught between toxic masculinity and the desire to be pampered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Considering Steve's circumstances, this should be considered non-con. His capacity to say no is non-existent, but he feels an attraction to Bucky.
> 
> Note: I made a small edit in the previous chapter to improve continuity. Bucky asks the brothel owner if his employees are slaves or free since Bucky doesn't like the idea of having sex with a slave. The owner indicates they're free. (He's a lying liar who lies.)

The men and women he normally serviced were wealthy and dressed in fine silks and expensive linens, things Steovan himself would never own, but the man who entered his room looked neither rich nor well-bred. He was dirty, had a thick beard, and wore garments that spoke of expensive cloth worn past its prime. Sea brine followed him into the room. A sailor, then. Most likely a Rus judging by the wide cut of his trousers and the furred cap covering long hair.

Steovan pulled a cushion from upon his bed and knelt upon it to present himself. People preferred him silent, so he remained silent, allowing a coy expression to lower his glance until lashes fanned across cheekbones. It was obvious his current appointment was staring at him. When one thought of a courtesan, one rarely pictured a mountain of muscle, nor the height and breadth that made him stand out amongst the people of Constantinople.

“You are a vision,” his appointment finally said in Latin.

Fingertips ghosted through Steovan's short hair and brushed across his shoulder.

Amusement quirked the corner of his lips, and he replied, “You smell like a fish market.” He dared a glance at his appointment's face to witness a flare of shock bleeding quickly into humor.

“Many months at sea will do that.”

“May I bathe you, master?”

It caused his appointment to stiffen and bark, “Don't call me that.”

“What shall I call you?”

“Bucky.”

His lips twitched again. “Bucky?”

“It's better than Boguslav.”

“Indeed, it is an improvement. May I bathe you, Bucky?”

“Please.”

Steovan rolled to his feet and glided across the room where a Roman bath awaited them, remnants of the times when Constantinople served as Rome's capital. Valens Aqueduct fed water throughout the city but only the richest could afford indoor plumbing. The courtesan palace catered to those with the means to pay for the luxury of a professional whore.

When Bucky joined him, he removed each garment as though it belonged to a prince: the armor, the woolen over-tunic, the soft linen beneath. The more he bared, the greater his understanding became. Bucky was no soft man of wealth whose belly over-shadowed the waist of his trousers; he was a man of war with a body honed to its fighting best.

A spark of arousal jumped into Steovan's stomach, and he became aware of being watched, of the pinch of wariness in Bucky's expression. To break the tension, he smiled again and backed into the heated water with a pronounced sway of his hips. He beckoned.

“You've been at war,” he said. “Let me soothe your hurts.”

“I don't need soothing,” snapped Bucky. “I need to spend inside your hole and be on my way.”

More amusement caused laughter to bubble from his throat. “You have not been to a place such as this before, have you. You may spend in my hole if it will please you, but you should allow yourself to enjoy the benefit of your coin to its fullest. Come. Let me show you.”

Bucky's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Slowly, reluctance and uncertainty bled from him, and he stepped into the water. Soon, it was swirling around his hips, droplets clinging to the trail of hair on his belly leading down to his cock and up to the dark fur on his chest.

It was so different from Steovan's body. Lord Aetius, the man who owned him, insisted Steovan's body be shaved. Wealthy men and women preferred it that way, so seeing the virility of Bucky's body and the dark hair on his chest, groin, and legs made his cock start to firm.

His touch, when Bucky came within reach, was more reverant than usual as it traced the hard contours of his client's body, and he repeated Bucky's words of earlier, “You are a vision.”

“Do you treat all your patrons to such honeyed words?”

“None deserve them but you.”

Doubt dripped from Bucky's countenance. Of course. It was hard to believe the comments of a professional whore, who lived and died by keeping their patrons happy and well-sated. But he spoke truth when it came to Bucky. There wasn't always pleasure in what he did, so he allowed himself to enjoy it on the rare occasion it presented itself.

Scooping up a handful of water, he allowed it to rain across broad shoulders and firm chest. The urge to follow the water's path with his tongue was strong despite the dirt on Bucky's body.

He collected a bottle of oil, oil he massaged into Bucky's skin, who watched him warily at first, who only relaxed when Steovan's fingers dug into the tender parts of muscles worked beyond capacity. Only then did his expression soften. It was like watching the first spring shoots revealed as warmth melted ice away. There was tenderness beneath the tough hide.

After Bucky was sufficiently coated, Steovan produced a strigil, another Roman remnant, and used the curved blade to scrape oil and dirt from Bucky's body. Only then did he allow his guest to slip into the water. He maneuvered Bucky until they were seated back to chest, his arms cradling Bucky's body to allow hands to glide across skin, and hair, and muscle.

“You must admit, Bucky, that sometimes it is nice to be pampered?”

“Contrary to your opinion, men of the North aren't always stiff with filth. In fact, the women of Wessex and Mercia prefer us to their own men, who bathe only yearly at best.”

“Is that so?” His lips curved against the side of Bucky's throat as he grazed kisses there.

“That is so,” Bucky responded. His hands settled on the outside of Steovan's thighs, absently rubbing circles there. “Steovan is not a nane found often in Constantinople.”

“I was not born in this place.”

“Where then?”

“I don't know. Some place that was not here.” 

He didn't allow Bucky's curiosity to distract him from his purpose and rubbed fingers across Bucky's nipples until they pulled into taut pebbles. Pinching them, he gave a gentle tug that caused air to rush into Bucky's lungs and his chest to arch toward the contact.

“A man should know where he was born.”

Steoven hummed against his throat and skimmed palms farther down to toy with the trail of hair and beyond, fingertips tracing the grooves of Bucky's Adonis belt. They carved hard flesh and led directly to the heavy weight of his genitals.

“Steovan...”

“Does such a subject really interest you when you could have my hands spinning magic across your skin? You did not pay Lord Aetius' exorbitant price to talk about where and when I was born.”

“I do not--” Bucky cut his comment off. Something uncertain stiffened his body only to ease into relaxation again, and he continued, “You're right. I would have you now.”

The abrupt change in Bucky's demeanor unsettled him, so it took longer than a moment for him to respond. “Then have me how you would want me.”

“Hands and knees.”

Steovan wasn't sure what had gone wrong or why Bucky had become so mercurial, but he was a professional if he was nothing else, so he knelt on the ledge on which they'd been sitting and braced hands against the lip of the bath. He arched his back to present his ass, for the first time feeling vulnerable in Bucky's presence.

The bottle of oil rattled, and moments later, slick fingers probed him, so at least he hadn't angered Bucky enough to take him without preparation. It showed more care than a lot of the wealthy pigs who took him displayed, their hands rough and their cocks as battering rams demanding entrance.

He cringed only momentarily when Bucky's cock pressed against him and penetrated, and at that, he allowed his forehead to rest against the marble lip as he tried to drift away. It was only his body, he reminded himself, and Bucky could do no hurt that woudn't eventually heal. The clouds called to him, and in his mind, he could fly.

But just as he reached that place of emptiness where he could exist separate from his physical form, rough fingers grazed the birthmark on his back.

“What's this?” demanded Bucky.

“I've always had it.”

*

It was the shape of a shield.

Bucky couldn't get it out of his mind, not even hours after leaving Steovan at the brothel with a chest hollowed out by the softness that had craved release. He'd thought that sensitive boy dead years ago, but he'd only been hiding, waiting for a prostitute with too much laughter and a heart bred for caring to bring him back to the light.

His behavior afterward hadn't been very well done, and the abrupt change had seemed to unsettle Steovan. Gone had been the natural caretaker. In its place had resided a shell, a body meant to be used while the mind drifted elsewhere. 

And how Bucky had used that body.

Thoughts of his mother back in Kiev brought shame into his heart. How many men and women had used his mother the same way? With cold hands and zero respect. A whore wasn't an empty body but a body that contained a person, and he'd truly bungled things in his haste to foster the cold, impenetrable exterior that was Winter's Soldier.

The shape of a shield. His thoughts raced back to his earliest years in the Danelaw and Alexnader Pierce. What had been said about a shield? The heir of the Rogers túath bore a marking in the shape of a shield and would one day return to Eire to reclaim his lands and people.

Return to reclaim his lands and people.

Whoever controlled Steovan Rogers controlled the lands and people of his túath.


	8. As The Other Ranks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky finds a miscreant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief, implied hebephilia (sexual attraction to pre-teens). Violence. Death of minor characters.

Bucky wasn't paying attention to his surroundings as he should have been. It was the only reason the thief got close enough to press the dangerous end of a dagger against his groin, threatening his masculinity with a sudden death.

“Coin,” the girl gritted from between clenched teeth. “Or you lose head.”

Tension snapped him rigid and he took in the girl in front of him. She was filthy. Beneath layers of dirt there existed hints of red hair. Her eyes were blue as a bird's egg and her features finely made. Want hollowed her cheeks, made her collar bones prominent, and thinned the delicate bones of her wrists and fingers.

A rush of compassion he thought long dead stayed his hand, and he reached for the coin purse hanging from around his neck. Most of his wealth he wore on his body in the form of gold jewelry, fine weapons, and his prized lamellar armor. The rest remained in the ship's strongbox, to which Thorir possessed the only key, so handing over the slight weight he carried on his person wouldn't hurt him.

The girl snatched the bag and slithered away several steps to a safer distance.

“Your name?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“You won't tell me, or you don't have one?”

“Don't got one,” she responded.

He nodded once. “Take that coin and buy some food. In future, you should take your prey from behind. Standing in front of me left you too vulnerable.”

“It worked on you,” she snapped.

“Because I allowed it.”

Huffing, she tossed matted locks of hair over her shoulder and disappeared, and that would have been that. Bucky would have returned to Thorir's ship and contemplated his next step when it came to Steovan Rogers if not for seeing a grown man grab the girl by the nape of her neck.

The stanger gave her a good shaking before snatching the coin pouch from her grubby hands. Then, with a snarl, he marched the girl ahead of him into the alley.

It wasn't Bucky's business. Real men didn't spare a doe with fawn; he killed both so that both graced his table, but he remembered Steovan's vulnerable eyes. He remembered how the girl had looked at him desperately. He recalled Grethe gazing at him during her final moments, and if he turned his back, he had a feeling the girls eyes would haunt him, too.

He followed at a distance until adult and youth ducked into a ramshackle building near the city tanneries. The smell wafting from the businesses drove away decent folk and left room for the seedier denizens of Constantinople. Bucky ducked inside and dealth with a guard stationed at the door, leaving the body sagging against a wall and his blade red with blood.

Inside, he found dozens of youth emptying their pockets onto a table where an older woman counted their ill-gained loot. The children received crusts of moldy bread in exchange for glittering jewels and coins of various make and weight and were sent scampering to continue their thievery.

The adults used the youth to line their own pockets. The youth took all the risk and received a pittance in reward while husband and wife wore fine silks and ate meals rich with meat and fine bread.

One more reminder that it wasn't his problem fell on deaf ears and a conscience slowly rousing from its long sleep. He slipped form the shadows and seized the woman by a braid threaded with silver. She yelped and struggled against him.

“What do you speak?” he demanded in Latin.

She shook her head, eyes wide with fear. A language he didn't understand babbled from her lips. Her alarm brought the husband from the back room in the midst of doing up his trousers. A pelt of red hair peeked around the corner from the room he'd exited.

Bucky's world turned crimson.

Like their guard, they didn't stand a chance. Both crumpled to the ground, and Bucky stepped over the bodies where he asked, “Do any of you speak Latin?”

The girl and an older boy lifted their hands.

“Distribute this equally among the rest of you. Move your location. The bodies will smell. The magistrate and his enforcers will come to investigate. You must not be nearby when they do. Take care of each other. Stick together. You're in charge.” He indicated the eldest of the boys.

Then, snatching up the coin purse the girl had taken from him, he pressed it into her hand and turned to leave. He hadn't gone more than half a block before becoming aware of his shadow, but when he turned to look, she was no longer in sight. The girl had skill.

He didn't bother addressing her until they were closer to the docks, at which point, he said, “You can come of hiding now. I know you're there.”

Head bowed, she came from around a corner, shuffling forward until they were in touching distance.

Bucky raised a hand to brush locks of hair out of his face.

She flinched and skittered backward.

“I won't hurt you,” he assured. “Can you climb?”

The girl nodded.

“How many languages do you speak?”

Six fingers was her response.

“Your name is Natalia.”

She nodded once.

*

“She'll sleep on my bench with me,” Bucky said when they returned to the ship. “She'll earn her keep by climbing the rigging and speaks the local languages.”

Thorir looked vastly amused rather than put out by one of his crew coming back with a stray. Large arms crossed over his chest, he inspected the newcomer before responding, “Odin's beard, take her to the bathhouse and clean her up. We don't want the rest of the crew infected with fleas. Fandral?”

“We can always make room for a little one. I'll instruct Oleg to recount the food stuffs for an extra mouth to feed. You see, Boguslav, being a human being is not so hard, eh?”

Bucky made a rude gesture, and things would have gone smoothly. He would have taken Natalia to the public bathhouse and gotten her cleaned up and purchased clothing and a good weapon for her. They would have loaded the ship and been on their way.

Until Aamu the Fin asked, “Enjoy yourself at Aetius'? She laughed with a couple of her companion. “My friend,” she inclined her head toward Ensio, who only spoke a Finnish dialect of Swedish, “wants to know if you had a taste of Aetius' star? Steovan, I think they call him.”

Bucky leveled a glare that should have warned them off the subject.

It didn't.

“They say Steovan specializes in taking it and giving it. My friend wonders if you gave it or received it. I've insisted you'd be walking as though you've ridden a horse for too long if you took it from him.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. In his mind, he heard the men of Arkady's crew jeering at him, calling him a woman, assigning him tasks on the ship that would normally be the domain of a woman. They'd made him do the washing and clean up their shit.

So he gave no warning before lunging toward them. Aamu scrambled out of the way, leaving her friend to take the brunt of his anger, and it wasn't long before Bucky had pinned him to the decking in order to hit him repeatedly.

His knuckles were bloody by the time someone pulled him off Ensio the Fin, whose face was a mess of blood and bits of broken teeth. Bucky still struggled, though, fought to get free of Fandral to continue the onslaught, and when he finally realized he wasn't going anywhere, he spat on Ensio.

“I am no woman, shit-fucker,” he snarled. “You ever insinuate such again, you'll both be cleaning your own teeth from the deck.” He shot a glare at Aamu to include her in the warning.

His rage was such he almost missed the startled looks exchanged between Volstagg and Dagr, the former of which scurried closer to press himself into the side of the larger man. He didn't begin to decipher what that meant until he'd calmed down sufficiently and served out his temporary banishment from the ship seeing to Natalia's needs.

Only then did he wonder if perhaps Dagr and Volstagg shared a special sort of relationship, but if that were the case, then one must take the position of a woman. Such would likely fall on Dagr, who was smaller of stature and slimmer of build.

The prospect of two men sharing such an open relationship on the microcosm that was a longship unsettled him. No one called out Dagr. No one assigned him to the worst of tasks. No one called him a woman or asked when he would provide Volstagg with fat, red-haired children.

He was sick on the way back to the boat.

Natalia looked at him with an arched brow and waited for him to regain his composure before she continued toward the ship, hair, now cut into a fluffy bob, bouncing behind her.


	9. Held Back the Enemy Tanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, Nat, Sifrir and Brunnhilde go on an enlightening adventure.

Natalia started out beneath Bucky's bench while he slept above on a pelt of fur, but at some point during the night, he felt her creep from her hiding place and settle in against him, her back tucked in the shadow of his chest. She wiggled to find a more comfortable position before falling back to sleep. Whether she was aware he was awake remained uncertain.

When they rose the next morning, it was to Fandral cracking jokes about beauty taming the beast. Sif nudged Fandral's shin and said, “More than a pretty face is required to tame that one else he would have gone to his knees in front of you.”

“Fandral?” Brunnhilde exclaimed. “Thought you had eyes only for me, pet.” Both women exchanged a quick peck on the lips.

Sif continued by addressing Natalia, “Come sit with us when you grow bored with the this one. We'll show you what it means to strike fear in the hearts of men.”

Natalia shook her head and pressed herself harder into Bucky's chest but wasn't satisfied until she'd dragged her woolen blanket over her head to hide from the strangers.

Bucky, meanwhile, arched a brow at the display of shyness. What did he know about young girls? She would be better off beneath Sif and Brunnhilde's protective wings than his own, but when he said as much, Natalia's little arms encircled one of his, and she refused to relinquish her hold.

So that was that. He'd somehow adopted a shadow of his own, a shadow who proved herself both nimble and determined during a brief squall at sea when they set sail into the Sea of Marmara and down into the Aegean. They stopped in Greece to deliver their cargo of spices and take on fine bolts of indigo cloth bound for the Iberian Peninsula.

He'd hoped to have enough coin to purchase his own boat and a small crew with the thought of tempting Steovan away from his work as a courtesan and returning with him to Ireland, but the cloth from Greece didn't bring a big enough profit to line their pockets excessively. Trading wasn't as profitable a venture as raiding the coast of Eire or fighting in a war in the Danelaw. So he was stuck, bound to his contract with Thorir and unable to purchase the supplies needed for such an endeavor.

That was when a complication arose in the form of Lokir. Every time Bucky turned his back, Natalia and Lokir had their heads together. He taught her how to rig the mast and tie a good knot, played hneftafl with her until she could obliterate her opponents, and became a companion that was nearer to her own age than the other crew members.

Natalia was Bucky's by that point. She was his responsibility, his to look after, his to provide for, his to be proud of, and the idea of leaving her with Thorir's crew to make his own way in the world caused a sour note to his otherwise brilliant plan of using Steovan to control the Rogers lands. The thing was he wasn't sure how Natalia would take being separated from Lokir after they'd formed such a close bond.

So they remained to voyage from the Iberian Peninsula to Dublin where the Norse had reestablished their foothold on the island, having taken it back from the Celts while Bucky had been fighting in the Danelaw. The port was a bustle of activity when they disembarked to sell expensive wine from Al-Andulas, Muslim-controlled Hispania, to Christian monasteries.

Sifrir, who wore a coat of fine, Frankish chainmail, approached him and said, “Thorir gives us leisure to spend a week in Dublin. Keep close eye on Natalia. Her fine hair and skin will be coveted here.”

He thanked her for the warning. “A week, you say? Natalia and I will ride north. There is a place there I would explore.”

“What place?”

“Lands currently controlled by a man who has no relation to the previous master.”

“You think it ripe fruit to pluck for your own desires?”

Siffir and he possessed a certain sameness. They were both practical people with a touch of the dreamer, enough to believe the impossible could sometimes be possible if they were determined enough, so confessing his desire over a few cups of honey mead hadn't been difficult.

“There's nowhere left in all the lands I've traveled that hasn't been claimed by this lord or that king. Eire has no one king to govern the island. Seems as good a spot as any to put down roots. From what I've heard, Alexander Pierce didn't come about possessing the land in the most honest of ways.”

“Brunnhilde and I will go with you.”

“You don't have to.”

“No, we don't, but we will all the same. A lone Northman traveling through territory that has just cause to resent us as marauders is vulnerable but three is less so.”

He accepted her offer graciously, and they borrowed horses from one of Thorir's distant relations that lived in Dublin to travel northwest. Natalia took one look at the beasts and barfed and was only persuaded into riding one through the threat of being forced to ride with Bucky.

After proclaiming herself to be more adult than child, she clambered onto the back of the smallest pony, gingerly took up the reins, and bounced along in between Sifrir and Brunnhilde. Much to Bucky's amusement. It was true, though; she was more adult than child and good at mimicry given the way she aped Safrir's posture once astride.

Dublin bled into Southern Uì Néill which turned into the kingdom of Connacht, whose old king had recently died, bringing peace between Connacht, Bréifne, and the tiny kingdom of Baile. Signs of the long conflict still survived in the scorched buildings of a village recovering from war. Women there scurried in doors while their men came out bearing axes and other implements of farming to use as makeshift weapons. No one stopped them, but they were warned not to linger long.

They crossed over the Ox Mountains where the ordered farmland of Connacth gave way to rugged wilderness. Standing at the crest of a peak and looking down over the green country took his breath away. It was like he'd never seen color before: the blue of the sky, the rich brown earth, and the emerald grass that stretched as far as the eye could see. He marveled over the harsh, rugged beauty of the marsh lands, allowed the wind to tear at his long hair and cut through the thickness of his beard.

“These marshes help protect the forests rich with timber and game,” he explained to his companions. “Peat bogs are also plentiful. Good source of fuel and building materials.”

“Bucky.”

“The land is also good for growing from what I remember of Pierce extolling the virtues of this part of the island. Up north, in the kingdom of Ulaid, you'll find the Giant's Causeway. The local Celts claim two giants built a bridge, one who made his home in Eire and one who lived in Scotland, to continue a blood feud.”

“Bucky!”

“What?” he snapped and turned to look at Natalia.

“I have to piss.”

“So go piss.”

“Can't get down from this cursed beast.”

“Why not?”

“Me legs are stuck.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can't move me sodding legs from being stretched over this sodding monster so long.”

Were Bucky a pious man, he would pray to Frigg for help in rearing Natalia, but he wasn't a pious man. The only thing he had to help was the desire to not see the child ill-used. It was at that point he became aware of Sifrir and Brunnhilde snickering at him, so he shot both women a poisonous look before dismounting and lifting Natalia from the saddle.

For her part, Natalia looked at him with a loathsome visage and hobbled behind a nearby bush to squat. Curses she made no attempt to withhold spilled from her every step of the way. He caught something about everything being hard for females and wishing she had a cock to be whipped out to piss.

His companions were shaking with full on guffaws by the time Natalia marched back and demanded to be lifted atop her pony again. She didn't stop glaring at him until they were on their way and moving down the side of the mountain again.

They passed the night in a way house at the base of the mountain, all sharing one room together much to the displeasure of the parish priest. Apparently it was unseemly for a man and three women to sleep in the same room without the benefit of chaperones or marriage.

The next afternoon, they finally approached the city of Dúchas where people become less welcoming. People in the rural areas of the kingdom had greeted them with hospitality, but those near the capital scurried away or refused to move hands away from whatever makeshift weaponry they carried.

It wasn't just the quality of the people, either. Streets were dirty. Slums sprouted along the edges of town that were filled with the poor. A layer of soot and grease was a shroud for the dead.

Between the muddy roads heavily-marked with ruts and a clinging bank of low clouds, the place looked infected. Something lurked beneath the surface that was neither clean or welcoming. Bucky didn't find out why until they topped a hillock and looked down over a quarry where men broke their backs cutting blocks and transporting them to the capital.

He grabbed the arm of a passing man and asked in Latin what the purpose of the quarry was. The man shook his head, so Bucky tried again in Norse. Turned out they were able to communicate in a pseudo language that mixed Gaelic and Norse words, something unique to the area.

“The quarry feeds the building projects of King Alexander,” he translated for others. “There used to be a ring fort protecting the building that housed King Seosamh Rogers and his queen, Saraid. Pierce demolished the building and the ring fort to construct a stone house and protective wall.”

“When will it be finished?” asked Brunnhilde.

“He says they're nearing completion. Probably some time in the next year.”

Sifrir said, “Which means seizing power will be all the more difficult. Battering down and burning out a wood building is much different than taking control of a stone structure.”

“Which means you need to make your move soon,” Brunnhilde added.

“There is a man,” he finally said. “I met him in Constantinople--”

Natalia interrupted by complaining, “Me arse hurts from riding this blasted beast. Can we talk later and go now? Some place where we don't have to be on horses?”


	10. For A While

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky returns to Steovan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Steovan is a slave, so this encounter is technically non-con, as a slave can't really consent when refusal would mean punishment and possibly death.

The burning between his legs wouldn't stop. Frantic, Steovan stumbled from his bed and poured water into a basin, using fine linen to clean himself. Garish red painted the creamy cloth. 

Baron Zemo had torn him.

He didn't weep. If he shed a tear every time someone used him painfully, his tears would fill up the Sea of Marmara. Rather, he clenched tight his jaw and applied a dab of soothing ointment from a jar in the cabinet containing his grooming things.

Baron Zemo had always been a rough man, the sort who enjoyed causing pain, as though the ability to cause pain somehow made him a rare and powerful man. It was a foolish idea. Prized things were rare, and there was nothing rare about leaving misery in one's wake. Misery was a worn cloak draping over people's shoulders.

Lord Aetius entered without knocking, his sandals whisper-quiet against wooden floorboards. Familiar hands took the jar from him, and lean fingers completed the act of medicating his most vulnerable of places. The ghost of a shiver haunted his spine. He should have disliked the casual treatment; he would have but for becoming accustomed to a lack of ownership over his own body.

“He used you roughly again, my child,” Aetius said. “Is the pain overly great? Will it affect the quality of your work the rest of the day?”

They'd had a similar conversation once before, when a tear had become infected and prevented him from working. If he didn't work, his father figure couldn't afford the scented oils that softened his skin and hair. If he didn't work, the fine pillows they slept upon would be sold. If he didn't work, the others would go without food, so he worked. Besides, the pain of his injury wasn't so great that his family—of course he was aware Aetius wasn't his real father and the other courtesans not his real family—should suffer for want of the coin he could bring in through his labor.

“I can continue,” he finally responded.

“Good. Business is not what it once was, you understand. The Germanic baron is a loyal client. If we lose his patronage, we could find ourselves on the streets. Were it just me, I would rather face the streets than see my most beloved son harmed, but there's the others to think about.”

So he lowered himself gingerly onto a padded stool to allow Aetius to draw a comb through his fine, golden hair. He thanked his master for helping him groom and watched the man leave. Then, he reminded himself that family was worth the cost of his bodily discomfort and many people depended on him to do the best job he could possibly do.

That still didn't mean he was prepared when Bucky walked back into his chamber.

A rose tightened around his heart: the sweet scent of their first encounter coupled with the biting prick of the thorn when Bucky had turned cold as the winds sweeping down from the north.

Steovan lowered his eyes and dropped to his knees on a cushion. Tentative fingers touched his hair, and he broke the silence to say, “I had thought you displeased with me last time.”

“Who could be displeased with you?”

“A man of ice whose only need is to spend inside my hole and be on his way?”

He was aware that his mouth sometimes did things his father would disapprove of, things like pricking at a client's ego, or throwing words back in their faces. Bucky, however, didn't seem displeased with him. He just huffed and momentarily tightened his grip on Steovan's hair.

“Would you have me wash first?” asked Bucky.

“Please.”

“Pickiest prostitute I've ever encountered,” mumbled Bucky as he stripped and stepped into the bath, and that was twice he'd mentioned prostitutes, as though he was unaware of Steovan's position.

Steovan winced while lowering himself into the heated water, and he began to spread oil across his client's body. His attention lingered longer than necessary on a pink line of healing flesh.

Bucky leaned his head back against the baths' rim. “Foolish men attacked the longship on which I sail. Only a special brand of ego drives a crew of forty to attack the dragon prow of a skied.”

He hummed to indicate he was listening while concentrating on the task of scraping oil from flesh.

“We outnumbered them, but they chose to attack regardless. There was much bloodshed.”

“I've never seen anything of the sort and retain only dim memories of being brought to this country as a child from a place that lives only in my most distant memories.”

“What do you remember?”

“Hills of green. A woman's voice. She had flaxen hair. My father, I think, once called her a gift from the fairy people, but something happened, and I was taken from that place and put on a ship.” He shook away the remnants of memories and offered Bucky a shy smile. No one had ever spoken to him like he was a person with interesting things to say.

“Do you like it here, Steve?”

Steovan sat back on his heels, something that made him flinch, but then he remembered what had startled him. “You called me Steve.”

“It's easier for a tired tongue to say. Do you dislike it?”

“No,” he said after a brief consideration. “I don't dislike it at all.”

A comfortable silence settled between them while he finished scraping the oil and then applied soap to rinse away the remnants. Bucky's body was still a marvel to him. It was a man's body.

He drew closer, near enough he knelt between Bucky's spread legs, and allowed their mouths to ghost together. The barest hint of touch sent shivers skittering down his spine, and what he offered, Bucky took. A broad palm cupped the back of his head to pull him forward into a kiss. There was something there, hidden beneath the surface pleasure, an ache to be molded by Bucky's strong hands.

The ache worsened into something closer to desperation when a tongue delved between his teeth. Bucky kissed like Steve imagined he fought, with unfailing control and attention. To be the center of that much focus made him feel vulnerable but desired at the same time.

Then there were fingers on his nipples and gliding down his stomach, and a hand between his legs. Few clients bothered touching him there, and the calluses on Bucky's skin scraped him pleasantly as he took firm hold of his cock. A few gentle tugs caused Steve to arch into the contact and his kisses to become sloppy, all heat and need and lack of coordination.

“You like for me to touch you there?”

“Yes,” he responded, a wisp of sound.

So Bucky continued touching him there, eased back the foreskin to sweep a thumb around the sensitive head. It was like being struck by lightning, a flash of pleasure that sent shivers crawling up his spine.

Another hand joined the first by sliding between his legs to cup his sac in a feathery grip. One finger slid behind them across the ridged flesh. Then there was exterior pressure against the interior tissue that could make him tremble. And oh, did he tremble.

He gasped Bucky's name and felt himself on the brink of orgasm, unable to ask to be jacked faster because a courtesan did not ask a client for his own pleasure. White teeth clenched into the pillow of his bottom lip as he struggled toward the peak.

Bucky's finger pressed against his hole, easing inside, and the pleasure turned into a sharp sting that caused him to yelp and pull away from touch. The second he reacted, he wished to call it back. The pain hadn't been so great as to render him incapable of taking Bucky's cock, and no client should know about it if Steve experienced pain.

Bucky stilled and asked, “Did I hurt you?”

Steve shook his head to deny what his own body had given truth to.

Bucky used the hand he'd been attending to Steve's hole with to shift himself higher in the tub. That was when he saw the blood on his finger. A multitude of emotions played across his expression, from confusion to anger.

Afraid of what was coming, Steve skittered backward, water sloshing around him, to avoid being hit.

Bucky went rigid. He demanded, “Who hurt you?”

“I cannot say.”

“Tell me who hurt you!”

“I cannot!”

Rus words spilled from Bucky's mouth before he returned to speaking Latin, “I won't hurt you. Steve, please stop cowering. I won't hurt you.”

Cowering? Only then did he realize he was crouched in a corner of the bath, one arm raised to protect his head and neck while the other braced him against an oncoming assault. It was an assault that didn't come, and he eased himself into a more natural position.

Water rippled as Bucky extricated himself from the bath and wrapped himself in a linen towel.

Silence stretched between them, long enough for Steve to feel comfortable getting out of the bath. He wrapped his silk kilt around his hips, uncertain about where to go from there. It was a situation he'd never found himself in before.

Instinct said he should go and attend to Bucky's needs, but when he took a step nearer, Bucky stiffened, his body language asking for space.

“Come with me,” Bucky finally said.

“Where?”

“To Eire. There's something I want to show you.”

“Leave here?”

“Forever. No one will use you harshly again. That I guarantee. We'll go together on the longship on which I serve until I can find passage to Eire for us.”

“I can't.”

“Can't? I have enough coin to see to both our needs until we reach our destination. You won't need to work as a prostitute again. You won't have to suffer such ill treatment.”

A beat of silence passed.

Steve said, “I'm not a prostitute, Bucky; I'm a slave. Lord Aetius treats me like a son, but my position is still clear. I can't leave. The other courtesans need me to provide for their needs.”

His words had an unintended affect. Bucky went rigid and shouted, “You're a thrall?”

It caused him to flinch. “Yes. Lord Aetius purchased me as a willowy youth from the auction block. He didn't expect me to become this.” He indicated his rugged physique. “And was most displeased with me. Most men want to sink themselves inside younger, smaller men.”

Bucky visibly calmed himself before gathering his clothes to get dressed.

Steve's shoulders sagged. “You don't want me anymore.” The dream had been pleasant for a while, thinking about being with a man who wanted him, who touched him gently, like he mattered. He knew better than to allow himself to believe in that fantasy. At the end of it all, he was still a slave, a courtesan who didn't fit the normal costume no matter how well he groomed himself. He was too big, too muscular, his voice too deep.

Watching Bucky leave was like watching his dreams drift out the window. It had been nice for the few brief moments it had lasted, but he needed to return to reality, to a world where men enjoyed breaking him, a world where he was a thing to be possessed and used.

“Spread your wings and fly away,” he whispered to himself. “Fly away.”

He eased onto a stool next to the window and looked out over the city, imagining himself a bird, a bird who could spread its wings and soar far above the world.


	11. And the Anzio Bridgehead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky struggles to find a way to free Steovan from slavery.

A fist impacted against the wall of the way house they were staying in while docked in Constantinople. Ligaments and bone crackled. Bits of mortar sprinkled toward the ground.

“He's a thrall!” he shouted. 

Neither Sifrir nor Brunnhilde so much as flinched over his display of anger.

It was Brunnhilde who finally worked up the gumption to say, “Northmen keep thralls on a regular basis, some for the sole purpose of sexual gratification. Why does this disturb you?”

“Have you ever looked at a thrall? Really looked in their eyes? Or are they furniture for you? Present but static, there only for your convenience.”

“Cease your passive-aggressive accusations,” Sifrir barked, pressing herself in between them. “We are your friends, Boguslav, but that does not give you license to abuse Brunnhilde with deed or word.”

Harsh breaths made his lungs burn. He curled hands into fists and considered hitting the wall again. It wouldn't be the first time he'd ever broken knuckles with his temper. His mother's shade lectured him about learning to control his anger, and he huffed out a breath, forcing away the tension.

“The man whose seed I sprang from owned thralls. Sometimes he slaked his needs inside them, and I saw--” He paused. “I saw the emptiness in their eyes. They weren't people anymore. They were things, things that lived only because their hearts beat and their lungs breathed.

“Sometimes he put babies in their bellies, you understand, and after, he refused to acknowledge them. With no means of providing for their babes, the women walked them into the woods far away from Bjarn's homestead. I followed one once. There were dozens of corpses.”

He raked fingers through his hair. It was a story he hadn't shared before. Sometimes the images danced behind his eyelids. The world was harsh, he knew, and unwanted children became burdens that gaunt hands couldn't feed. Better to leave them to the cold and ice so their suffering ended without years of toil and hardship, but for some reason, he couldn't ignore that night.

Brunnhilde laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and her voice was tinged with compassion when she spoke. “Your goals haven't changed. You want the Rogers land to build a future upon, a place to bring your mother so she can live out her days in comfort and security.”

“And to prove to Bjarn that you're not a worthless waste of his seed, though why you're so caught up in what that man thinks of you is a mystery,” added Sif.

Something like that hadn't occurred to him before, that he could forget what his father thought of him, that he could live his life based on his own desires instead of those of a man whom he'd met only once. He was frightened, though, of letting go of that motivation. What would he become if he was no longer the bastard son proving himself worthy to a man who'd sired a basketful of bastard sons and daughters?

Eventually, he said, “You're right. My goals haven't changed, and Steve is still the most efficient means to acquiring land and livelihood. That means freeing him from slavery, by force if necessary.”

Purchasing Steve would have been quickest and easiest, but he didn't have the liquid assets for that kind of transaction. The value of a courtesan of Steve's skill and renown would require selling his armor, his weapons, and every jewel worn upon his body, and that wouldn't leave him enough to buy out his own contract with Thorir and arrange passage for them back to Eire.

That left force. Over the week they spent in port at Constantinople, he watched the comings and goings of Lord Aetius' building. The man was possessed by a certain level of paranoia that meant his holdings were protected by several dozen loyal bodyguards. Even assuming he could free Steve from the building, they would still need to make haste beyond the port before pursuit stopped them, as he had no faith Lord Aetius wouldn't have friends in high places. That meant fighting city guards, too.

Thorir might help with the endeavor, but not even a crew of seventy could hope to gain the freedom of open waters before port defenses sank their longship into the inky waters with Greek Fire. He doubted many of the crew would vote to take on that kind of risk to free a slave who only benefited Bucky.

So he arrived at an impasse and remained there, and when Thorir and the others had completed their business and gained new cargo, he was forced to board along with the rest of them to ship out, this time headed south around the horn of Turkey and toward Cyprus.

Cyprus was of strategic importance, and thus, had been subject to countless occupations by foreign powers. The Moors presently had control, but that didn't stop various powers from using the island as a den of subterfuge. And Bucky? Bucky had other concerns than exploring or drowning himself in the local wine, which was the only reason he was aboard the ship when Loki slipped away, a wisp of movement in an otherwise still night.

There was something suspicious about the way he held himself, so Bucky followed at a distance. They passed various ale houses where raucous noise spilled onto the streets. They passed brothels that operated despite Islam's rigorous laws against the practice. They passed underground fighting where enslaved men were forced to fight to the death. They passed other bloody sports until Loki paused outside a two story house.

He rapped against the back door in a particular pattern: three knocks, a pause, two knocks. The youth reached into an inner pocket on his coat and fumbled a stack of parchment all curled into a scroll and tied in place with a cord.

Bucky recognized the papers. They belonged to Thorir, who used them to mark their future routes of travel. What shocked him, though, was when Arkady opened the door. Being punched in the gut would have hurt less than seeing his former crew-master in league with Loki. Remembering all those years spent fighting beneath Arkady's banner only to be forced out over his desire for men felt like swallowing ragged pieces of glass.

He reacted, surging from the shadows and clasping Loki's nape, who yelped and looked up with a certain amount of fear. Bucky said, “This one is not for you, Arkady.”

“Boguslav! What great fortune that we should meet again. Let me look at you, boy. You have grown since last we saw one another. Finally filled into your manhood, it seems.”

Loki tried wriggling away, but Bucky simply clenched his hand tighter around the boy's nape.

“I filled into my manhood long ago. You just wouldn't admit it.”

“Pray, tell me you're sailing with this young rascal. He brings great fortune to my coffers, you know. Could I tempt you into rejoining?”

“After you threw me out while playing Christian?”

“Salvation wasn't for me, it turns out,” Arkady commented. “Come inside. We'll talk.” The offer was given while Arkady clenched scarred knuckles around the handle of a short sword. Tension pulled his body tight in a manner that made it obvious he was itching for a fight.

“We're done, Arkady. We've been done. I have no desire to be anything but done with you.” His own hand went to the sword belted at his waist.

“A shame, but one I'll swallow. Now, if you'll be good enough to hand over that which our young friend has promised, we'll part ways and likely never see one another again.”

There was a brewing fight in the air. Arkady was vicious in battle and the one person Bucky figured he couldn't beat, not when his former mentor knew everything about Bucky's fighting style. He didn't want it to come to that. He was too close to achieving his goals, had real hope for the first time in his life, and to waste the possibilities here in a random battle with someone like Arkady stuck in his throat.

A knot of people emerged from an ale house across the cobbled street, their drunken revelry serving as a moment's distraction. Bucky seized it and darted away, Loki in tow by his ebony hair. If they were followed, he didn't pause to check, just lost himself in the cramped streets. 

The kid protested the entire way, and they didn't stop until they were back at the ship, at which point, Bucky shoved Loki up against a wall in the hold.

“What were you thinking?” he snapped.

“You know nothing,” snarled Loki. “Thorir deserves to be laid low. Perhaps if you weren't blinded by his golden glory, you'd see--”

Bucky smacked the kid's mouth. “What of Natalia? What do you think would happen to her if our ship were attacked and overrun? You despise your brother. That's not my concern. My concern is that people I'm responsible for would be caught in the middle.”

The youth sagged. He opened his mouth only to close it again, clearly grasping for some way to justify his actions. Finally, he said, “I didn't think about that.”

“Because you're selfish. You're self-centered. You hate the way the crew treats you? Tell your brother. Thorir isn't a malicious man--” He pressed a hand to Loki's mouth to silence him. “I've met malicious men. I've served under malicious men. Your brother is not one of them. His fault lies in his dimness. He's not an observant man.”

A few moments passed before Loki nodded, prompting Bucky to remove his palm from the youth's mouth. Ire still seethed inside him. It wasn't that he cared about what happened to Thorir's people. There were a few he might mourn, but any act of betrayal had direct impact against Natalia, Sif, and Brunnhilde. It would ruin his chances of freeing Steve and carrying out his objectives.

“I can't look at you right now.”

“Will you tell Thorir?”

Bucky warned, “You will, or I will.”

Then, he turned away, the scroll of parchment in his hand and stalked from the hold. On deck, he sat heavily on his bench and tried to stop the tremble of his hands. Arkady had shown him what it meant to be brutal, what it meant to be a Northman, and he remembered how it felt to die and be reborn. The boy he'd been had died, ripped screaming from his soul to make way for the man.

Once he calmed, he opened the parchments to ensure the contents were intact. It did contain future contacts, the cargo they were already contracted to carry and the trading routes they would pass. But that wasn't all. He also found detailed depictions on the defenses of Constantinople's fortifications. The emperor planned to leave the city soon, taking most of the navy with it, to go on a campaign in Asian Minor against the Moors.

A thought came to him, a wonderful thought.

Bucky left the ship again, but he didn't return to Arkady. No, he slipped inside the home of an affluent Rus with direct ties to King Oleg of the Kievan Russ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kievan Rus did attack and lay siege to Constantinople, but it took place somewhere around the year 860. Records of this time in world history are sparse and mostly come from scholars living after the original moment. Anyhow, I played fast and loose with the time line here.


	12. Was Held For A Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steovan's world is turned upside down by an invasion by the Kievan Rus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to get this out. Life happened. So I'll probably be slower than normal updating this. Thanks for your patience.

The flames were distant wisps of light from the window of Steve's bedroom. He leaned against the sill watching them leap and dance, unaware of the danger until the screams of fleeing citizens drew closer. Fingers curled into fists. Uncertainty writhed in his guts, the sucking dread of realizing something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

He didn't realize what until hordes of men and women garbed in foreign clothing with weapons darkened with blood came behind the citizens like dogs herding sheep. Someone had attacked the city. Someone had breached the city's famed walls.

Steve pushed away from the sill, one thought clamoring through the chaos in his mind: protect the others. He banged on doors as he ran through the building to rouse the other courtesans. At some point, Lord Aetius emerged from his suite of rooms to grasp Steve's wrist.

“Get them to the cellar,” he instructed. “We'll barricade ourselves inside until city guards beat back the invaders. Go, my child. I'm behind you.”

He didn't see where Lord Aetius disappeared to, only that he headed in the direction of the vault where his wealth in coin and silks were secured. Then, taking a breath to calm his unsettled nerves, he ran to gather the others so they could hide in the cellar.

That was when the building's door burst open. Armed assailants flooded inside on the heels of Aetius' retreating guards. Foreign fighters were vicious and brutal. Steve stood directly behind a guard when an enemy took off a guard's head. Hot blood splattered his face. Shock made him freeze for a couple of breaths before he came back to life.

The only thing he could think to do was stoop to gather a dropped a shield. No matter that it felt foreign in his hand. No matter that the only violence in his life had been at the hands of depraved clients. The only thing that mattered was protecting the others.

An ax smashed into the shield. Wood splintered. Part of the shield dropped to the floor, and he nearly buckled under the weight of the assault. It reverberated up his arm, jarred his shoulder, and threatened to send him reeling. The only thing that saved him was stumbling into a pedestal. The bust it contained clattered to the ground and broke apart.

A second strike came before he could right his stance and drove him against a wall. It was either give ground or be cut down where he stood, and he was the only thing between the invaders and a bunch of women and youthful men who hadn't grown into their manliness yet.

Another strike would kill him.

“Stop!”

The rumbling voice was familiar and came from deeper inside the building.

“Leave the thralls. They don't warrant your blood lust.”

Whoever the invaders were, they listened to Bucky and immediately retreated to a safer distance, leaving Steve to regain his footing and the other courtesans to cower in a far corner.

A shiver raced down his spine. Bucky. He turned. Bucky looked fierce garbed in his armor with blood splashing his face. Blue paint had been smeared around his eyes, giving him an unearthly look. He wasn't a man. He was raised from the pits of the Christian Hell. He dragged Lord Aetius behind him.

Steve took a step toward them, hand outstretched toward the only father figure he'd ever known.

“Get your hands off me, you wretched heathen,” Lord Aetius snarled.

Bucky complied, though Steve doubted it was in response to the authority in Lord Aetius' tone.

“Who did you buy him from?” demanded Bucky while jabbing a finger toward Steve.

Lord Aetius stood taller and gathered his robes around him to affect a noble stance, as though he looked down on everyone else from on high. “He is my son.”

Steve moved toward him only to have his path impeded by Bucky.

A crack reverberated through the foyer when Bucky slapped Lord Aetius. “Try the truth this time. Who did you purchase this man from?”

“I owe you no answers.”

Bucky kicked Lord Aetius' feet from beneath him, causing him to crash down on his knees and Steve to flinch. Lord Aetius had bad knees. He often asked Steve to massage them with warm ointment, but when he attempted to go to him again, Bucky placed a hand on Steve's chest to hold him back.

“I'll ask you once more before I start removing fingers. Who did you purchase this man from?”

Lord Aetius swallowed and held his tongue only until Bucky pulled a knife from a scabbard and approached, at which point, he spat, “Pierce. Alexander Pierce. Pierce said he wouldn't invite the wrath of God by killing a child, so he sold him to me during a trip to Constantinople.”

That name tickled the edges of Steve's consciousness, but he'd been young when Lord Aetius had brought him into his household, too young for him to have carried any memories of his previous life. Th revelation didn't matter. He'd known, of course, that Lord Aetius had purchased him as a slave. It didn't demean the fact Lord Aetius had cared for him all these years, had put a roof over his head and food in his stomach and luxuries far above the grasp of most free men.

So he protested by digging in his heels when Bucky took hold of his arm and attempted pulling him through the building's entrance. This was his home. He knew nothing else. Things outside his home terrified him. It was a dangerous unknown, and he didn't know Bucky well enough to surrender himself into strange hands. There was also the matter of the other courtesans.

Bucky turned a confused expression toward him.

“They need me. He needs me.”

Something cracked Bucky's stoic facade. “He lied to you. He bought you and forced you to fuck strangers to increase his own wealth. The trinkets he gave you aren't even yours. They're his.”

“He's the only father I've ever known.”

“I'll take you to meet your real father, your real mother, the place you were meant to live and the people you were meant to lead. They're out there waiting for you to save them from Pierce. I've seen them. They're hungry for your guidance.”

Steve paused, torn between the past and possibility, but his knees weakened enough for Bucky to nudge him through the door, leaving the rest of the invading horde inside. Screams followed them out. Lord Aetius screamed. His screams turned into wet gurgles, but when Steve tried to return to him, Bucky slung his own cloak, a dark garment made of heavy wool and fur, around Steve's shoulders and guided him away through streets he hadn't walked before, through fires that shouldn't rage, and to a ship.

Conflicted, he squeezed his eyes closed and allowed Bucky to guide him. _Fly away,_ he said to himself. _Fly away, sparrow, where nothing can touch you._

Inexplicably, he felt a warm palm on the nape of his neck, a palm that urged his head down into the protective groove between Bucky's neck and shoulder. It blocked out the sights and sounds they passed, the violence that caused streets to run red with blood. Bucky hummed, his rich voice drowning out agonized cries, giving him something to focus on other than his rising panic.

In the end, they reached the harbor unimpeded and boarded a ship. A red-haired girl dropped from the ship's mast, bare feet padding across smooth wood as she approached. Her voice was caught between womanhood and childhood when she spoke.

“Don't look like much of a courtesan,” she said. “Didn't know they made 'em that big.”

Another man, one even larger than Bucky with impossibly broad shoulders and golden hair tied up in a topknot, scowled at Bucky. “You could have told me your needs,” the man said. “The secrecy was unnecessary.” Then, he turned away. “Valgrim, the drums. To your oars, and put your backs into it.”

Bucky led him toward a bench tucked behind an oar. A giant of a man, cheeks tattooed with crows, raised mallets and beat upon a large drum at the front of the ship. Men and women all along the dozens of oars took up position and began moving as one. The ship lurched into motion.


	13. Of A Few Hundred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes his first steps toward freedom.

He was seasick. His stomach roiled. The ocean moved beneath them, and it was all he could do to cling to the side of the boat and await the next spasm that emptied bile into the saltwater. A woman named Valkyrie said it would pass. Bucky's adopted daughter wasn't so concerned. She insisted on staggering like a drunk man right in front of him, her exaggerated movements sending him running again, chased across the deck by her amused laughter.

“Natalia,” barked Bucky. “Leave him alone.”

Then there was Bucky. Thoughts of him resulted in confused turmoil. Steve's world was changed, the man he looked to as a father killed, the peace of his life thrown into upheaval by a man who expected him to be grateful. He didn't know how to be grateful. He didn't know what freedom meant.

“Sip slowly,” another man commented in broken Latin—and that was yet another challenge; so few people aboard the vessel spoke in a language Steve understood. They all communicated in a sort of common tongue made up of words from the different languages used.

This man's name was Oleg, and he produced a cup of something that smelled rancid.

The scent alone nearly made Steve's stomach revolt. He shook his head.

“Drink,” insisted Oleg.

And that tone of voice, the authority it carried, the growing ire, it triggered years of servitude. Steve accepted the cup and swallowed, the bitter flavor sharp across his tongue and causing him to cough and gag. Oleg's meaty hand thumped him between the shoulder blades, and he spoke rapidly.

“I don't understand,” complained Steve. 

He didn't understand anything, the people around him, how the boat worked, where they were going, why he'd been yanked from his home and ushered aboard this strange vessel. Mostly, he didn't understand what Bucky wanted from him. He claimed something about his family in Eire, but the old memories were so jumbled in his brain he couldn't parse together what home was.

The potion Oleg gave him did settle his stomach, though, enough so he could wander away from the side of the ship for a change. No one had told him he couldn't wander, so he paced up and down the length of the vessel, sometimes disappearing behind the canvas tent erected near the front of the ship. The man who seemed to be the leader slept in the tent.

Bucky found him there after the crew hoisted a sail onto the single mast, after the sail caught the wind and the rowing crew eased their exertions. He looked different on the ship than on land, having discarded his armor in favor of loose trousers and a thin, linen shirt. He didn't even wear boots, just padded around the decking barefoot with his loose hair blowing in the wind.

But Steve wasn't attracted to him right now. His thoughts were too much a jumble to consider feeling any spark of heat in his body. Of course, he would still perform as expected. His desire wasn't a prerequisite to servicing a man or woman's need. He'd learned that at a young age.

“Try to ignore Natalia,” said Bucky. “She was raised on the streets.”

He kept his tongue between his teeth.

“Steve,” Bucky prompted.

“What words would you have me say?”

“Whatever words you would like to say.”

“My mind is my own, but my words belong to my master. You took me from my home, so I must belong to you now. That means my words belong to you, so tell me what you would have me say.”

Bucky blew out a strong breath, toes flexing against the wood as the ship cut through another wave. “You're not a slave anymore. Your words are your own.”

That was where Steve got stuck, unable to process what life meant if he wasn't a slave. Neither was it the way the world worked. No one released a slave of their own good will. A slave bought their freedom or died a slave. He didn't know what to do with himself otherwise.

So Steve dropped to his knees and reached for Bucky's hips, pulling him closer in order to undo the laces fastening his trousers. They slipped free. Steve took out Bucky's soft cock before Bucky grabbed his wrists to disengage his touch, and that just confused him all the more.

“Stop, Steve.”

“Please, master.”

Bucky cringed.

“Sir. Please. I want the world to make sense again.”

But Bucky tightened his grip on Steve's wrists, hard enough bones scraped together and he winced. Stepping back allowed him to put distance between them, Steve still on his knees and begging for some kind of direction. Why was he here? What did they want from him? Why would no one tell him what they wanted from him? Eventually, his hands slipped down to his sides again.

“I don't fuck thralls. The man who sired me did, and I won't be like him. If you ever come to my bed again, it must be because you want it as much as I do.”

That was not the answer Steve wanted, and rose, fingers clutching the wood of the ship. “Why did you take me if not for that? Why did you storm your way into my home, kill the people I care about, and steal me away in the night? Please, tell me.”

“You're a prince.”

“I am not.”

“You are. You're a prince of Eire stolen from your home by a usurper. The birthmark on your back proves that. The son of King Seosamh Rogers and Queen Saraid was born with a birthmark in the shape of a shield. You carry that mark.”

Panic and confusion welled inside him again. He choked it down. Bucky could be lying, but why? Why lie about something like that? Tentatively, he asked, “You're taking me back to where my real parents were born, then?”

“And the people you were meant to lead. You'll touch the stone of destiny on the Hill of Tara and unite the túatha. You'll become the high king of Eire.”

“It seems a tale told for fancy,” he admitted, voice quiet, “the slave who is secretly a prince. I don't understand why you would tell a falsehood, so that means what you say is likely true. Still, why risk yourself to return me to my homeland? What do you gain?”

Bucky's expression became pinched.

“Is it what all men want? Power. To make a prince indebted to you?”

The flinch suggested he wasn't far from the mark, and Steve accepted that. No one did anything for free in the world in which they lived. Knowing that Bucky wanted something from him as surely as all men did shouldn't have hit so resoundingly. But it did.

“If my words are my own, then please heed them when I ask for space to be alone, to think.”

Bucky nodded once, turned on his heel, and padded back around the tent to rejoin the others.

He sank against the side wall of the ship, elbows braced there, head hanging low between his shoulders. Disappointment curdled in the pit of his stomach. No one looked at him and saw Steve. They saw his body. They saw the birthmark. They saw what he could do for them but not Steve, not a man who hurt or felt desire or got seasick on the open ocean.

The sun slid lower toward the horizon when Oleg found him there, Oleg who sauntered close and threw an arm over his shoulders in a friendly sort of manner. He smelled of brine and sweat, of stale mead and a body too long without a wash, but at least he didn't mask his wants behind false concern.

“Time to eat,” said Oleg, while miming the act of bringing food to his mouth. “No eat free. Trade?” A meaty hand gripped Steve's ass. “Ass for food? S'what the Rus brought you for, ya?”

This, he understood. Nothing was for free, and his body was his only commodity.


	14. Ordinary Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky finally understands the price of using Steve for his own ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I am sorry this is so late, but I've been battling a severe case of "I don't want to write," so it took longer than I could have imagined. I'm finding this story difficult to write, but I'll get there slowly but surely.

Bucky reclined on his bench and watched the myriad of stars overhead while gentle waves lapped at the boat's hull. People were sitting in groups. Mead flowed freely from one of their barrels, and Valkyrie's voice raised above the otherwise quiet camaraderie.

“Then this fool,” she smacked her palm against Thorir's shoulder, “drapes a blanket over his head and calls it a costume. Claims the enemy can't see him long as it's over his head. All the while, the guards are barreling right toward him.”

Her enraptured audience laughed in a boisterous burst of noise.

Thorir shrugged a shoulder. “Try hiding a body this big. You'll give in to the futility of the gesture.”

“So how did you escape?” one of their rapt audience asked.

Bucky stopped listening to the conversation, lost in his own recriminations. Steve's words to him the other week had put the situation into a certain perspective. How was he any different than Aetius and every other man who'd used Steve for his body if he went through with his plans?

That tiny voice that belonged to a young boy who'd refused to kill a doe suckling her fawn reminded him that life shouldn't be about how he could use people for his own ends. Trouble was, that voice was so often drowned out by lessons taught by Arkady and his sire. He was a warrior. Warriors used people to gain the advantage. Successful men, strong men, real men wouldn't hesitate to use Steve's disadvantage for their own gain.

His glance drifted toward Thorir, who was so different from Arkady. Thorir didn't lead through intimidation and withholding their cut of the spoils. He never waited to doll out their take until they made safe port because he wasn't afraid of his crew turning on him. He wasn't a gentle man, but he was still a jovial man, one who wore his heart on his sleeve, and his crew loved him for it.

Then there was Steve himself. Steve looked with gentle eyes at Lokir. Steve, despite how his world had been turned upside down, found unusual ways to make himself of use aboard the longship. He trimmed hair. He showed them how to make salve for when their skin was burned by the sun.

No one had ruined Steve's fragile heart. He was a slave and a prostitute and had been terribly used and forced how to kneel, but they hadn't broken him. Until Bucky. Swallowing the shame that crawled into his gullet wasn't possible. If he continued down his planned path, he would be that careless person who forever changed Steve Rogers.

Thoughts scattered to the four winds when Sifrir called his name with raised voice, and he padded toward her, bare feet sure against the hewn wood of the decking. She beckoned him to peer around the small tent erected for Thorir's privacy and almost didn't register what he saw.

Oleg had Steve bent over the hull's railing. The way his hips moved...

Red clouded his vision. 

His mind cried “No!” and “Mine!” and “Protect!” Before he knew what he was doing, his hand gripped Oleg's throat, whose eyes bulged and whose trousers were half-way down his thighs.

“Are you addled?” he snarled. “Who gave you leave? Who told you that you could touch him?”

“Boguslav!” shouted Sifrir as she made a failed attempt to pry his fingers from Oleg's throat.

A voice murmured nearby, but Bucky was far too deep into the grips of his anger. Seeing Oleg put himself where Bucky had been... There was a storm in his mind, a whirlwind of anger and horror. He'd failed Steve again. He had brought Steve onto the longship but hadn't protected him from the people who would use him... The people like Bucky himself.

Someone murmured something nearby, but the words went ignored while Oleg choked in his grip.

Beat.

“Isn't this why I'm here?” Steve finally shouted, voice louder than the rush of blood in Bucky's ears.

Bucky flicked his glance in Steve's direction, and it was suddenly Steve's hand on his forearm.

“He did nothing that other men haven't. He did nothing that you haven't. He bartered for the use of my body like a thousand other men.” And the way he said it, like he was speaking the absolute truth with tone laced in acceptance, damn near made Bucky sick.

He released his grip and took several steps back.

They'd garnered an audience by that point, most of the crew gathered in the vicinity to witness the unfolding drama. Anything to break up the monotony of sailing.

“I didn't bring you aboard for this,” he spat. “Your body isn't—”

“All I have of value is my body,” retorted Steve, blue eyes full of fire.

“That's not true,” he insisted. “It's not. You're so much more--” Me too, Bucky suddenly realized. Wasn't he worth so much more than his warrior's body could provide? Wasn't he worth so much more than whatever land he could own and the number of lives he could support? Wasn't he?

Heart thundering, he clasped and unclasped his hands into fists in the hopes the adrenaline would seep into the wood beneath his feet. One heartbeat. Two. A handful. He nodded. He nodded and started to turn away to allow Sifrir, who seemed to have become closest to Steve, to help him clean up.

“His ass weren't that good anyways, ya?” quipped Oleg.

Bucky snapped tight, twisted, and put his foot in a powerful kick against Oleg's chest, sending the Swede stumbling into the ship's hull where he flipped overboard. The splash of him hitting the water did little to still the fire licking Bucky's insides.

While the others scrambled to bring Oleg back on board, Bucky took his share of mead from the barrel and drank. He drank until his emotions dulled to a distant buzz. He drank until his recriminations silenced. He drank until the stars overhead danced like the ancient forest spirits the Rus told so many tales about. He drank until the world faded and he slid into unconsciousness.

Valkyrie was the only one who took any pity on him the following day when he woke with a pounding head and a mouth filled with something nasty. Getting up and rowing when the wind stilled and the sail went slack was a nightmare but one shared with Oleg, who had busted his head against the ship's hull while falling and looked positively green.

“Tell us a story, whore,” cried Aamu the Fin in Latin.

Steve didn't seem in the least bothered by the term. It was a word many people used with regards to Bucky's mother, so he should have been desensitized to it. He wasn't. Not after seeing how some of the men treated her those first few months following their exile from his grandfather's household.

Steve, busy braiding rope to repair the rigging for the sail, paused and seemed to think for a moment.

Volstagg butted in to say, “I've got a good one to tell you.”

“Your stories are all the same,” retorted Aamu. “The whore has new stories.”

“His name is Steovan,” snapped Dagr.

Tension spiked, something that didn't break until Steve rose from his place beside Sifrir and said, “There is a story I could tell. Once there was a great war between two nations. The first nation knew war like fish know the sea. No one had ever defeated them. Anyone who tried crumbled beneath their might. The king of this great nation ordered an attack on a small kingdom.”

Steve's deep voice was unassuming. He lacked the flair for storytelling that Volstagg and Valkyrie possessed, but the matter-of-fact tone lent to the realism of his tale as he told them about a kingdom that had no hope of victory fighting to its last man. Somewhere along the way, Valgrim added his drums to accompany the rise and fall of Steve's voice, the two sounds resonating together.

Everything seemed hopeless for the small kingdom. They had no chance of defeating their enemy. Their king lay dead on the field of battle, their army decimated. Until, in a last bid for survival, their queen emerged from their last great house carrying her husband's shield.

“She stood between her people and destruction and offered herself up to slake the thirst of that great kingdom. They attacked. But when the end seemed unavoidable, the enemy broke apart against her shield. No matter how many warriors they sent, none could penetrate the defenses of one righteous woman defending the very lives of her people.

“That great kingdom departed in shame, their king never to be heard from again.”

There was silence as those who spoke Latin digested the story. Up until Aamu cried, “That's it? She didn't attack? She didn't bear a sword? She destroyed an entire army with a shield? That is not the warrior's way. Your story is wrong.”

Steve's shoulders didn't sink. Rather, he turned inward, eyes darkening as he seemed to realize something about the story that resonated with him.

An argument broke out with Aamu and Ensio declaring Steovan an unskilled storyteller. Stories were supposed to be about great men blessed by the gods and cursed during their mortal because of their blessings because the blessings of gods were always double-edged things.

Bucky ignored them in favor of watching Steve retake his seat beside Sifrir. He finished braiding rope, and when a gust of wind came along and blew her ebony locks in her face, he gathered it gently into a tail to tie it at the back of her head. Then he scratched at the beard growing on his face.

He was such a contradiction, a man with the body of a warrior but a gentle soul. No doubt he would stand between a doe nursing her fawn and the hunter's arrow. Steve would be that shield between the enemies of his people and men like Alexander Pierce.

Something twisted in Bucky's guts. He had to return Steve to his people, not because it would gain Bucky something but because Steve could save his own people.


	15. And Kind Old King George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet moment aboard the longship.

Valkyrie was drunk again, and Steve spent the afternoon showing Sifrir how to dance. Their sinuous bodies twisted this way and that, arms raised over their heads, and hips moving to the imaginary strains of music. Steve had long since discarded his shirt and left his skin exposed to the afternoon sun. It didn't tan. Rather, it became pink, flushed with exertion and sunburn.

He seemed happy for the first time since boarding the ship those weeks ago. There was new lightness in the tilt of his shoulders. His serious expression had lifted into one of amusement.

Their dance lesson ended when Valkyrie snatched Sifrir into her arms and pressed kisses across her jaw until their mouths met. They spoke in a Norse dialect he wasn't familiar with, but he understood enough to make out the loving words passed between them.

Steve, for his part, moved away to give them privacy and sat on the bench across from Bucky, hands clasped between his knees. Some of the lightness disappeared from his eyes. “I have never seen two people kiss when they love each other.”

He made eye contact with Steve, hands that had been whittling a piece of wood into a deer stilling. “There is a difference?”

“Can't you see it? Look at how tender the touch is. I know kisses. There are kisses for many things, those meant to console, those meant to build passion before sex, those a mother shares with her children. That is none of those. I've never kissed someone I loved before.”

Bucky grunted in acknowledgment of the comment but didn't know how to respond. There had been a time, many years ago, and a certain boy with hair the color of dark, rich soil and eyes the bright green of spring leaves. Their kisses had been--

“Have you ever kissed someone like that?” asked Steve.

“Love is for children,” Natalia called from across the deck where she played a game with Loki.

“You are a child!” Bucky shouted back.

“No. I'm the queen of this ship.” And with the way she stood, feet braced apart, hands on her hips, head held at a jaunty angle, he believed her. She'd come such a long way from the street urchin he'd found nearly a year ago.

Steve still looked at him, still waited for his answer.

Bucky ducked his head and lowered his voice. “There was a boy. Long ago. When the world was still a wondrous place and youthful naivety made us feel bright and new as a bud ready to bloom. The world isn't like that anymore.”

Hands just beginning to form calluses touched his. “Yes, it is.”

He scoffed. “You don't know. This all seems like an adventure to you now, but when we reach Eire, when the fighting happens, when people around you start screaming and dying, that's when the world and life becomes a tainted shadow of the newness you experience.”

Steve's voice dropped, “Or maybe it hardens a man, makes him blind to possibilities.”

Perhaps it did. Perhaps war and blood had blinded him, but those things weren't for him, and years spent rehearsing the same thought patterns didn't break overnight just like changing the course of a river happened over the span of years and eons.

Tension mounting between them bubbled away when Steve wriggled on his bench, fingers digging through the beard on his face and beneath his armpits. He complained, “I was once silken and new. Now I'm turning into rough leather covered in too much body hair. Why does it itch so?”

The unexpected turn of conversation made Bucky laugh.

People nearby stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

“Come,” he said while patting the deck below his feet and widening his legs to make room for Steve.

After Steve settled himself between Bucky's knees, back to chest, Bucky rifled through his personal belongings to find a clay pot. He dipped fingers into the ointment inside and smoothed it across Steve's shoulders and back. The cooling salve would help with sunburn and dry, chapped skin.

He did not expect Steve's head to fall forward or a positively obscene sound to escape him. It sent a thrill of shock pooling in his loins, and he prayed desperately to Odin that no one noticed the rising interest between his legs. After kicking Oleg, who had been fished from the ocean and now stared daggers at him whenever they were in touching distance, overboard for accosting Steve, it would appear incredibly hypocritical if he engaged in the same behavior.

Steve's muscles were firm beneath his hands, his skin incredibly smooth, and Bucky took far too much pleasure in skimming his palms up his back. His fingers dug into the muscles of Steve's neck and threaded up into hair growing long from their many weeks at sea. He gathered that hair in one hand to tie it off with a piece of leather string.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much. Thank you.”

Steve didn't move far away, only enough to sit on the bench beside Bucky, their shoulders pressed together. Both men seemed content to allow silence to stretch between them while they shared a companionable moment.

It was disrupted when, off the port side, a leviathan breached the ocean's surface. It's tremendous body raised from the water, reached its pinnacle, and crashed back into the sea with a sound like thunder. Moments later, the fluke appeared. Great plumes of spray hissed into the atmosphere as it exhaled from its long dive.

Steve squeaked. He pressed both hands to his mouth.

Thorir surged to his feet and called them into position to take up oars, and they scrambled to obey. Men and women settled into position. The oars slotted into place and slipped into the currents beneath them in preparation of rowing. Valgrim's drums boomed across the deck as they worked on concert to maneuver the ship farther away from the leviathan.

None of it registered on Steve, who ran across the deck to get a closer look. There was brightness in his eyes, a sort of wonder Bucky wasn't sure he'd ever experienced before, and some part of him suddenly ached. The way Steve saw the world, with such newness, was a joy to behold.

“You're frightened,” Steve realized aloud. “Why are you frightened? It's stunning. I didn't know such creatures existed. Look how big it is.”

Thorir answered with a hand on Steve's shoulder. “Many ships have been destroyed and many lives lost because of the leviathans. They are not to be trifled with.”

“But look, it doesn't have teeth, not like a lion or a bear. It doesn't attack. It won't eat you.”

“It doesn't need to eat us to crush a ship beneath its body.”

Sadness replaced the wonder in Steve's eyes. “I did not think...”

Thorir patted his back. “The world is full of dangers both great and small.”

Steve wasn't the same for the rest of the day. He was sullen and quiet, pensive, and kept to himself despite how Natalia attempted to pull his sunshine from behind the shade. And when evening came and people started turning in for the night, he curled his blanket around his shoulders and claimed a spot for himself away from the others.

Bucky could have ignored it. People deserved their own space when thoughts became heavy, but the idea of Steve being heavy, of his enthusiasm being dimmed, sat like thick mud in his gullet. So he gathered the soft sheepskin on which he slept and his blankets and trekked across the deck.

Once he had himself settled, he opened his blanket and patted the spot next to him. Steve looked like he would refuse the offer, but nights were cold on the open ocean, cold enough for him to finally cave and close the distance between them. They settled themselves together, trapping their body heat between the sheepskin and their blankets.

Eventually, Steve said, “The world is dangerous. I did not think-- Back home--” He huffed a quiet laugh. “I don't even know where home is anymore. Is it the place I was born? The place I grew up?”

“Home is where you feel safest.”

“Home is you,” he murmured while looking into Bucky's eyes. “I feel safest with you.”

The comment hit Bucky like a battering ram. Steve felt safest with him. Even after everything, after invading his home, killing the only father he'd ever known, stealing him away into a strange, frightening world. It seemed illogical, but part of being free was making your own choices and having other people uphold and honor them.

Beneath the blanket, he slipped an arm around those broad shoulders and pulled him closer, close enough to press his closed lips against the crown of Steve's head. He inhaled the salt of the sea and the thick scent of Steve.

“There are so many things to be frightened of while being a free man,” Steve finally concluded.

“Being a free man also means having people who care for you, people who will help you navigate this big, frightening world. Maybe I don't deserve to be your home. Maybe you shouldn't feel safest with me, but you're mine now. You're my responsibility, and I take my responsibilities seriously.”

“I'm yours?”

“If you want to be.”

They fell asleep to the sounds of water slapping against the hull and the quiet voices as others settled into sleep beneath the watchful eyes of Valgrim and his crows.


	16. Sent Mother A Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm at sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit shorter of a chapter this time, but we're finally getting into the heart of the story now.

He'd been afraid before. The city being attacked had made him afraid. Warriors breaking down the door of his home had made him afraid. Knowing the man who had been his father was being killed had made him afraid. Steve knew fear.

Terror, on the other hand? He'd never known terror before, not until threatening storm clouds broke open and rained down upon their vessel. The ship lurched in the waves. Frothy water sloshed over the sides to be bailed out via buckets and waterproof skins.

His back screamed in protest as he stooped for another bucket of water, turning to hurl it overboard, back into the churning water they struggled through. 

People all around him shouted to be heard over the waves, over the thunder.

Everyone stank of fear.

He could taste the electric prickle in the air as a bolt of lightning spider-webbed across the leaden clouds, and he realized something: They were going to die. Poseidon, Neptune, Triton, Tiamat, whatever name they went by, the gods of the ocean were angry with them and hurtling them back and forth like a cat playing with a mouse.

And he nearly froze.

And he couldn't catch his breath.

And he wanted the world to stop.

Sifrir shook him from his daze and shouted over the roaring, “Keep moving! Stay focused.”

He didn't realize there were tears on his cheeks, until he felt a fat drop tickle its way from his eyes. The terror was so overwhelming he couldn't even bring himself to feel weak for weeping. The ocean was so big, and they were so small, so insignificant.

Another lurch made him lose his footing, and he skidded across the decking, body impacting against the ship's hull. It knocked the breath from him.

And he wanted to curl up.

And he wanted to hide.

And he wanted the world to stop.

Rather than doing any of those things, he pushed down the rising panic and regained his feet. The grim faces of his comrades weren't collapsing into mindless tear. They were focused on their oars, attempting to beat the power of the ocean and keep them from blowing off course.

He retrieved his bucket and went back to bailing water, though it seemed the water sloshed overboard much faster than they could bail. The storm was a hungry monster. It was punishment for thinking they could tame its savagery and traverse its mysteries safely.

“Land!” one of the crew screamed from the ship's prow.

Thorir, not a sliver of doubt in his voice, handed the rudder over to Volstagg and fought his way through the wind and the rain to the prow to see what his crewman had seen.

Steve didn't even dare to hope, but it was there, a hulking blackness through the gloom of rainwater and the spray of waves. Land beckoned. And safety. If they could hold on for a little longer.

Then the quiet came, and seconds stretched into minutes and minutes into hours. Some foreboding dread filled the atmosphere. Dark shapes dotted the water, and they were not mermaids of leviathans come from the deep to overtake them. No, they were rocks. Rocks that would break apart their ship.

A wave surged toward them, its cap curling and collapsing. Then another appeared. Bigger. More dangerous. Steve grabbed for the mast, for a bench, for anything when the water swept his feet from beneath him, but his fingertips grazed the wood before he disappeared into the blackness with a scream.

His head broke the surface of the water, allowing him to gulp down a few breaths. It didn't last. Another wave took him back under. Water rushed down his throat into his lungs, and he choked. He choked and coughed, and his heart thundered with the fear of death.

Just when his lungs burned and black spots prickled behind his eyes, he broke the surface again where he hacked up sea water. Then he heard someone screaming his name and looked up. Someone else was in the water. He didn't know who until Bucky's strong arm came around him.

“Swim!” Bucky shouted over the roar.

“I don't know how!” he shouted back.

And he didn't know why Bucky would hurl himself overboard after him.

And he couldn't understand what was going on.

Because the water wanted to kill him. And the rain wanted to drown him. And the storm wanted him to die. And he couldn't breathe. Gods, why couldn't he breathe?

Bucky shook him. Hard. “Kick your feet.”

So he did.

He kicked his feet and clung to Bucky, and somehow, that blackness ahead of them got closer. And closer. But a wave threw them violently into a the rocks. Pain raced through his body when his head made contact with a boulder. Crimson bloomed in the water.

“Hold onto me,” Bucky shouted.

“Don't let go,” Steve said. “Don't let go. Don't let go.”

It became his prayer as he clutched Bucky's tunic until his knuckles ached and his fingertips tingled. And when the next wave came, when it ripped at them in an attempt to separate them, he continued to hold on in spite of the storm's anger. Even when they both went under the water again and he couldn't tell what was up from what was down.

There was another rock. Another jolt of pain. He scrambled to find purchase against the boulder, but his bare feet kept coming up against rocks like razors that cut into the soles.

Bucky wasn't kicking anymore.

Steve felt the limp weight against him and realized with a sickening sense of horror that Bucky wasn't conscious anymore. He was bleeding heavily from a gash on his forehead.

They were going to die. The ocean would become their final resting place unless he did something. Unless he found some core of strength that allowed him to carry on. The way his mother had when she'd used a shield to turn the tides of war.

Teeth gritted against the pain and disorientation, he tightened his grip on Bucky and kicked hard toward the shoreline. His muscles ached. His head spun with dizziness, but getting to shore was the only thing that mattered, so he kicked. And he kicked, mindless but for his singular goal.

His toes brushed against rocks. His feet dug into sand, and somehow, the water came up to his chin, and then his chest, and then his waist, and then his knees. Dragging Bucky behind him, he just barely cleared the surf before he collapsed, body shuddering and lungs burning.

Coughing seized him, and he expelled sea water from his stomach and his lungs. Then, exhausted, he dropped into the sand, shaking and entirely spent.

*

Bucky came to while the storm still raged. The last thing he remembered was striking his head against a rock and the agony of knowing he'd failed. But the sand beneath his cheek and the hard drizzle of rain assured him he was still of the world.

Until the panic came. Steve had fallen overboard. He'd fallen into the churning ocean and didn't know how to swim. Lurching upright, Bucky scrambled across the sand toward the body resting nearby. It took every ounce of what strength remained to turn Steve onto his back.

He was still breathing. Shallowly, but there nonetheless.

Weak in the knees, both from their ordeal and the relief of finding Steve alive, he collapsed on that broad chest and was surprised when Steve's hand came up to cradle the back of his head.

“We're alive?” asked Steve.

“We're alive,” he agreed.

It had been a long time since Bucky had actively rejoiced over that truth.


	17. When He Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve struggle to survive in a strange place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Fish death.

Bucky's pleasure over being alive didn't last long. It bled into determination. They'd been stranded in an unknown location without any tools necessary for survival. His precious armor, his coin, even his weapons were either still aboard the longship or had gone down into the ocean depending on the fate of the others. The only way to find out if the others were alive was to survive themselves.

So the sun turned the sky into a dull gray in the wake of the storm's passing, and he prodded Steve, huddled against the trunk of a tree and hugging himself for warmth, to his feet.

“We need to move.”

Nodding, Steve pushed to his bare feet with a wince to follow, but despite his trouble keeping up, he didn't utter a word of complaint, just kept his steps careful and trudged along.

Trees surrounded them on all sides. The forest was dense, the floor covered with layers of fallen leaves and moss, and it was impossible to determine their location. Could be they were on one of numerous islands in and around Eire or Britain, or on the main landmasses themselves. He couldn't know until they'd gotten to higher ground or discovered signs of human occupation.

They walked into the afternoon before coming across a river. It was wide but shallow, and Steve went to his knees at the waterline to cup handfuls of water to drink from.

Bucky did the same while keeping aware of their surroundings. Waterways were a good location for humanity to gather. And predators.

He drank his fill. He sat back on his haunches to survey the area. Only then did he notice how badly Steve's feet were bleeding. Breath hissed through his teeth in sympathy, so he gathered handfuls of moss and rinsed it in the running water.

“Sit. Let me tend to your feet. Why didn't you tell me it was so bad?”

“We needed to move,” responded Steve, who eased himself onto a boulder. He winced at the first press of moss against the soles.

Bucky picked twigs and other bits of foliage from inside the lacerations until the blood ran clean and was content to allow silence to fall between them again, at least until Steve released a bark of laughter.

“What?”

“You rescued me from a comfortable life where all my needs were provided for only to take me on a boat with people I don't know speaking languages I've never heard. Now we're only the gods know where without a single extra stitch of clothes or weapons to our names. Would you say I'm better off?”

Bucky scowled up at his companion. “Better to die a free man than live as a slave.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone!” Then, more quietly, he continued, “No one wants to be a slave.”

“I have always been a slave. It's the only thing I've ever known. You took your experiences, your desires, and shackled me with them to a fate I neither chose nor wanted. You might not call me a slave, but you took my will and made decisions for me the same as other men.”

He flinched and moved away toward a towering pine growing along the edge of the stream rather than say something he might regret. Real men didn't allow themselves to become slaves. Real men fought against enslavement, fought against having their will subverted. Everything he'd learned from his father and Arkady existed opposite Steve's comments.

“Why did you take me?” demanded Steve, voice stern. “Don't walk away from me. Why did you do this to me?”

“Because I'm selfish!” Bucky exploded. “Because my father called me weak and refused to allow me to inherit his properties. Because my mother and I were forced from our home after my grandfather died. Because my mother sells herself to eat and have a place to lay her head, and it's my duty to find a place for us to protect her from the harshness of the world.”

Birds nesting in nearby trees took flight in a riot of commotion over his raised voice.

“I took you because you stand to inherit the kingdom of Baile, and if you are under my influence, it means I also inherit the kingdom, lands of my own, a place to call home, a place to take my mother to free her from that which she's had to do in order to live. I'm selfish, Steovan. Right to the core, and you have every reason to despise me.”

Steve was silent afterward, and in that silence, they heard the distant sound of people.

Bucky froze for a flash of time before hurrying to grab Steve and usher him into the forest's undergrowth. No matter where they were, the local population wouldn't take kindly to strangers. There was too much violence in the world for hospitality.

They crouched behind a hill and watched a group of women come down to the river carrying baskets, buckets, jugs, and pots. They crouched along the water's edge to wash clothing, scrubbing garments against rocks to work dirt from the rough weave. While they worked, they spoke their words in Gaelic, which did absolutely nothing to narrow down their location.

Afternoon bled into evening, and it was only with the growing dusk that the women gathered their garments, filled their jugs with water, and began their trip back to their dwellings.

Bucky laid a hand on Steve's shoulder and rose to follow at a distance. The forest thickened, closing in around them, and didn't thin until they came upon a homestead. A man finished chopping wood when his wife called from inside the one room home. Children ceased their games and chores and followed, and the family sat down to supper and then to sleep.

Under the cover of darkness, Steve shivering beside him, Bucky emerged from the trees. He didn't want to give away their presence. Being a trained fighter, he could likely overwhelm the small family, but doing so would alert any number of relatives in nearby homesteads, so rather than attacking, he grabbed up the ax from where the father had left it embedded in a tree stump and raided a nearby shed.

There, he found winter garments packed away in crates, leather and hardened by vegetable matter they could construct sandals from, and an iron sickle.

It was on his way back toward the forest's edge that a dog, previously sleeping behind a woodpile, spotted him and started up a flurry of barking. The mangy beast was good at its job. Only seconds passed before the home's door opened, giving Bucky even less time to make a snap decision.

Rather than racing toward the forest and risk being spotted, he ducked around the side of the house. It wouldn't hide him for long. The dog was already on its way, so he would soon have to contend with man and beast. Jaw tightening, he gripped the ax's handle to prepare himself to kill.

Footsteps approached the corner. Frenzied barking accompanied the man of the house as the dog tugged frantically against its rope. Any second.

A flurry of commotion at the edge of the forest startled all three of them. The man called out in that direction. Moments later, his older sons joined him, and the small party, dog included, moved to investigate, giving Bucky enough time to slip into the trees closer to the house.

He spent a panicked night looking for Steovan, who wasn't equipped to take care of himself in this new environment. A long time had passed since supplications to the gods had passed his lips, but he prayed. He prayed to Thor, guardian of common folks. He prayed to Balder, who was gentle and wise.

And upon sunrise, he made his way back to where he'd split from Steve. Relief eased his tense muscles. He hurried the last dozen or so steps and cupped Steve's cheeks between his hands.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

Steve smiled. Broad palms settled on Bucky's shoulders. Arms then curled around him, drawing him close, pressing him against a firm chest where they shared warmth. Plumes of mist exhaled from their mouths mingled into one cloud. Then, the world blurring around them, their mouths met.

It was a kiss exchanged between free men that was neither paid for or owed as a service, and Bucky melted into it. Later, he might be embarrassed by the noise he made, but it wasn't later. It was those magical moments caught on the dewy strands of a spiderweb where his lips molded against Steve's and allowed him to feel close with another person in ways he hadn't felt since Rambi in his youth.

Breathless, he eased back from the kiss to search Steve's eyes. They'd argued yesterday, so he could hardly believe Steve would consent to kissing him, but he found nothing but gentle acceptance. Despite the beard or skin chapped by ocean winds, despite calluses blooming on his hands, Steve could still look gentle. Tender. And Bucky felt humbled.

Noise from the homestead disturbed the peace between, reminded Bucky they were still too close and much too vulnerable, so he unpacked the basket of belongings he'd pilfered. “Put this on,” he instructed while shoving a thick jacket toward Steve.

When they were dressed, he checked the position of the sun and made their way back to the river. Steve was limping again. Every step seemed a test of will, so Bucky urged him to sit while Bucky set up a quick campsite where they could spend the day.

Bucky showed Steve how to cut soles from tanned leather with the sickle. He showed him how to punch holes in the leather and make rawhide straps to affix the sandals to their feet. Then, he left his companion to the task while he stripped down to his small clothes and waded into the river to hunt fish.

*

Steve didn't take to art of making sandals naturally and became easily frustrated. He was sure God or Jesus or Mary or whichever of the pantheon of Christian deities—Lord Aetius attended mass but never bothered with passing on the things he'd learned about faith to the denizens of his brothel—oversaw justice and moral virtue scowled down upon. But it was true. Becoming easily frustrated was one of his moral failings.

But between his work and the picture of masculine beauty Bucky posed while standing stock still in the river in nothing but his small clothes, Steve didn't make progress very fast. Bucky was distracting. His body was thick with muscle, his flesh tanned from the sun. He experienced the sudden urge to lick the dense hair beneath Bucky's armpit to taste his sweat, musk, and masculinity.

Which was a desire in total opposition to his hatred of the body hair now dusting his own skin. It itched. It felt coarse and uncomfortable, and perhaps his vanity was another moral failing.

Bucky moved with lightning fluidity, hand breaking the water's surface and emerging with a wriggling fish the length of his forearm. Thick thighs propelled him through the current back to shore where he dropped the hapless creature. It undulated on dry land, heaving its body in an attempt to return to the water, and after exhausting itself, all it could do was lie there and gasp.

He felt sorry for the creature, so when Bucky returned with another, Steve asked, “Can you kill them instead of letting them suffer?”

Bucky's expression became blank. “What?”

“When you throw them on the rocks, they die slowly in much agony and confusion. Can't you understand how panicked they must feel? If you say I must eat them, and I'm not looking forward to that prospect when we lived mostly on fruits and vegetables at the brothel, then I would rather they not suffer for our dinner.”

That got another incredulous look from his companion. “You ate fish aboard the longship.”

“Salted fish that had long been dead but still felt awkward on my tongue. I did not have to watch those fish struggling through the throes of death.” He allowed his own expression to soften, eyes becoming slow and lashes leaving sooty shadows against his cheekbones. “Please, Bucky. It disturbs me.”

Bucky uttered something coarse in his own tongue and used a stone to bash the fish's head in. “Anything else, Majesty? Perhaps I could fetch you a silver chalice from which to drink your river water? A soft, linen robe to dress yourself in come morning?”

“Yes to all of those things, please.” He said it with a cheeky grin.

A bark of laughter sounded musical in the atmosphere, and Bucky scooped up a handful of water to fling in Steve's direction, causing Steve to shriek and skitter away from the oncoming attack.

“This is how you repay me. I spend all morning making sandals for you, and you soak me in cold water. What an insubordinate subject you are, my Boguslav.”

“You'll think me a monster when I tell you we can't chance a fire to cook these fine fellows.”

All the color drained from Steve's face. He felt it rushing from the crown of his head into his toes. Eating salted fish was one thing. Eating fish cooked over a fire was another. Raw fish?

“I would rather starve.”

“We're much too close to a settlement to risk the smoke of a fire drawing attention.”

“You may call me dainty if you wish. You may call me vain. You may say I'm too picky, but I am not eating those things raw. The thought of that spoils my appetite. Surely, it would be more detrimental to our stomachs than beneficial.”

Impasse.

They gazed into each other's eyes, both refusing to back down.

Time ticked by.

Finally, Bucky cursed again. “Finish those sandals. We'll leave soon and find a place to build a fire that will be less conspicuous to our unwanted neighbors.”


	18. Father Was Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve's relationship grows, and Bucky confronts some of his issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Discussions of toxic masculinity and gender expectations.

Tears ran down Steve's cheeks. 

A trail of blood led him to the small creature lying prone on the forest floor, its helpless cries resonating throughout the trees. It was a fawn, but its mother wasn't around to protect it. 

Only when he got closer did he notice the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from its hindquarters. Seeing its fate was a punch to the gut, and he rushed forward to sink to his knees beside the fawn. It panicked, getting shakily to its feet and attempting to run, but it only made it a few steps before collapsing again. It trumpeted to no avail.

Heart hurting, he moved closer, eventually resting broad palms along the deer's heaving side to keep it still while he inspected the injury. The arrowhead wasn't deep, but barbed points prevented it from being removed without causing undue injury.

The rustle of twigs behind him caused him to look up to see Bucky, still sleep-rumpled and rubbing his eyes, moving toward him. “What's that?”

“I don't know what to do.”

Bucky drew closer. His expression flew through different emotions: shock, understanding, horror, and finally, bone-deep sadness. He dropped to his knees opposite Steve. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it against the fawn's throat.

A shocked sound punched from him, and he moved to stop Bucky.

“The wound will sour, and she'll die a slow death. Best to end her misery and terror.”

“There's nothing we can do?”

Bucky hesitated.

“Please?” Beat. “Your hands don't have to kill all the time.” He reached across the fawn and touched one of Bucky's hands. “Your hands can do so much more if you'll let them, if you'll ignore the things your father tried to teach you.”

Bucky extracted his hand and swiped it across his face. Then, he cursed and tucked the knife back in its sheath at his waist. Another curse followed. “All right. We can cut the arrowhead loose, but infection is the greatest worry. If the head has penetrated too deeply, the deer will be lame and unable to forage for itself. It could still die, but these are the things I need.”

A new energy infused Steve while Bucky rattled off a list of plants he needed, plants he described in detail. Steve set out on his chore, heart beating erratically. Bucky was willing to try. He was willing to allow his hands to heal rather than take life, to be a defender instead of an aggressor.

By the time he returned with the necessary items, Bucky had already cut the arrowhead from the deer's flesh and pressed moss against the wound. The fawn had stopped crying for its mother but looked shocked, eyes unfocused, and breath heaving through its body.

“Deer don't handle stress well. We need to work fast or it'll die from terror.”

So they set about cleaning the wound as best they could, working quickly. Plants were stripped of leaves. Leaves were washed in water and chafed between palms to break them down into pulp and oil. Only then did Bucky pack the wound. There was no way to secure or bind it.

Once done, they both stepped back and melted into the undergrowth to watch. Steve wasn't consciously aware of having tangled his fingers with Bucky's. He just felt the warmth and comfort of the contact between them.

Some time passed before the fawn had recovered enough to get unsteadily to its feet. Another bellow left it. This time, an answering call came from deeper in the woods, and it wasn't long before the undergrowth gave way to a healthy doe who nosed at her offspring. She seemed concerned. After all, she could smell the scents of humans in the area, but after consoling herself, she guided the fawn back the way she'd come.

Steve turned, joyous, only to find wetness on Bucky's cheeks. Silent tears tracked down his face to drip from his chin. His eyes were dark and turned inward.

He squeezed Bucky's hand and let him cry, let him have whatever moment he needed.

Eventually, Bucky drew in a shuddering breath and said, “That moment changed me. My father took me hunting to judge my worthiness to become his heir. He had a big, stone house on a hill with many thralls and much riches but no wife. I am one of his many bastards. He tested us all, I think.

“There was a doe. She still had a fawn, and he asked me to kill the doe. Papa Dimitrei, he always said we shouldn't kill a doe with a fawn. The fawn must be allowed to grow to maturity and have fawns of their own, but my father didn't think things like that mattered.

“I couldn't kill her. Then I spooked both so they could get away when my father took the bow himself. He never forgave me, and because of my weakness, because I couldn't... Real men provide for their families. Real men own property and can take a wife and produce children. Real men--”

Steve stopped him there by cupping his cheeks. “There's no such thing as a real man. We are all men. The baker who bakes bread, the tanner who prepares hide, the courtesan who fucks men for coin, the physician whose hands heal. We're all men. And you are, too.”

He gathered Bucky's hands and brought them to his lips. “These hands can kill, but they can also soothe. They can rend flesh and catch fish and sharpen blades, but they can touch me with a gentleness I hadn't known before. Be Bucky. Whoever that is. Don't be your father or the other men who've tried to teach you that there's only one path to masculinity.”

Bucky didn't sob. Fresh tears beaded along his eyelids, but he made no noise when he pressed his forehead into Steve's chest, and Steve cupped the nape of his neck in both hands. The most vulnerable part of a man wasn't his cock and balls. It was the nape, where no other hands touched.

Shafts of broken sunlight filtering through the canopy shifted as the sun moved toward the western horizon. Eventually, they returned to their makeshift camp beside a babbling stream.

Their supplies had grown over the past several days spent raiding nearby farmsteads on their march north. Everything from weapons to better clothes, to loaves of piping hot bread filched from open windows awaited them, but both men were covered in blood.

Steve removed his garments and stepped into the stream, cupping hands to allow handfuls of water to ripple down his body. Bucky joined him not long after to help scrub away the blood, dirt, and grit, but there was a new softness between them, and their hands weren't efficient in their tasks.

His companion's body was beautiful in its ruggedness, and Steve allowed palms to linger over the curve of his muscular back. Fingertips explored dimpled flesh from a badly healed wound along his side. Another scar slashed the outside of his right thigh from hip to knee, but the worst damage was his left arm, marked with a deep wound surrounded by smaller scars where it was obvious someone had attempted surgery to improve its healing.

Without giving thought to his actions, he caressed his lips against the scars, causing Bucky to jump. Steve hushed him with the soft sounds he'd most recently used on a wounded deer. And wasn't that true of Bucky also? Wasn't he a wounded deer? His injuries weren't visible. They were deep cuts left inside that caused far-reaching damage.

He turned Bucky, pulled him into his arms, and stood in the midst of the running water, bodies pressed flush together: cheeks, chests, soft cocks, thighs. This man, complex and scarred, was more than Steve had envisioned when they'd first met. Yes, he was still angry about being taken from his home, his family murdered. Yes, he still blamed Bucky for forcing him and attempting to use him for Bucky's own agenda. But there was more to a man than his sins.

So he held onto Bucky, and when he wanted to fly away from the harshness of the world, he took Bucky with him. They could fly high over green, green foliage and crystal blue waters.

His lips sought Bucky's. Their kiss was chaste until Bucky, trembling in his arms, made a needy sound in the back of his throat and opened his mouth to allow Steve entrance. He dipped inside to taste, to draw succor, and then it felt like they were really flying.

“Show me,” whispered Bucky. He didn't need to clarify.

They stepped out of the stream, and Steve laid him on a pilfered blanket. He left a trail of kisses down Bucky's jaw and onto his neck. There, his teeth grazed the straining tendon, prompting Bucky to release a strangled sound.

“Let me hear,” Steve admonished. “There's no one here to listen.”

Lips caught on a nipple that had already pebbled from the chill water. Another breathy sound rewarded his efforts, so he closed his mouth around the nipple and sucked, sucked until the body beneath him arched into the contact and a thigh wrapped around him to keep him close.

Further down Steve traced the muscles cording his lover's body. Thick muscle gave way to the grove of Bucky's Adonis belt. There, he closed his teeth around flesh in a sharp nip that made Bucky yelp.

“What are you doing to me?” he demanded.

“Showing you how good softness can be,” he murmured.

At Bucky's groin, where the scent of his musk was strongest, Steve laved the flat of his tongue up the underside of his lover's half-hard cock. A strangled sound from above caused him to grin.

“No one has ever-- Steve, please.”

“You have not known a mouth such as mine and will never know anything better.”

“Braggart,” Bucky retorted with fondness in his voice.

Steve shut him up with the heat of his mouth. Rather, he turned Bucky's complaints into moans by swallowing him down to the root. Coarse pubic hair tickled his nose. His tongue danced along the underside of the head when he pulled off.

He returned, lowering himself until Bucky's cock pushed into the back of his throat, until he felt split open by the instrument that had become fully hard. He choked on it. He coughed. Then, he closed his lips around the girth and bobbed his head.

Above him, Bucky keened. Callused fingers threaded into Steve's hair, but Steve didn't feel restrained; he didn't feel forced. Instead, he felt cradled, and somehow, giving Bucky pleasure felt more like a gift than a chore. Those broken-off sounds, the way Bucky's body trembled beneath him? It fed Steve's own desire, and he reached down to cradle himself.

He went back to sucking on the head, using his tongue to dip into the slit weeping viscous fluid, but Bucky pulled on his hair, not to cause pain but to pull him away.

“If you don't stop, I'll climax.”

“There's something wrong with that?”

“I want-- I don't know what I want.”

Understanding dawned, and he crawled up Bucky's body to kiss him. Their kisses were languid. Steve licked into Bucky's mouth with a growing sense of urgency. When the heat coiling in his loins became too much, he fitted himself between Bucky's thighs. Their cocks aligned, and he slowly ground himself there, thrusting so the friction of their bellies sent pleasure spiraling through them.

He rested his forehead against Bucky's where they shared breath.

Bucky's hand gripped his ass, fingers digging into the meat there to encourage him. And he was encouraged. His thrusts sped up, cocks sliding through the sweat dampening them.

He grabbed Bucky's free hand with his own and laced their fingers together.

Bucky sighed, “Faster.”

Steve obliged.

They panted into each other's mouths. Then, it was there. The white-hot ecstasy tightened and released in waves of joy as he spent on their bellies. His breath caught. His body stiffened. He reached between them to squeeze at his cock and milk himself of everything left inside his balls.

The semen dampened his palm when he grasped Bucky's shaft, allowing flesh to skim flesh until Bucky cried out his own release. Ropes of ejaculate splattered across their stomachs and chests, but not once during his orgasm did Bucky look away. They held eye contact in a way that felt intimate.

After, they washed in the stream again and settled themselves on their blankets to allow hands to stroke and bodies to touch. They didn't speak, only gazed into each other's eyes.


	19. It Was, I Recall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys journey north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for how long it's taking me to update this fic. My life has been crazy hectic, and writing has become difficult, but I will keep plugging away until I get this done. Fear not. I won't abandon this. I have everything outlined. Just gotta find creative juices again.

The farther north they went, the more Bucky could understand the language. Outfitted as they were with native garb and weaponry, he felt more comfortable walking freely amongst the local population, so when farmland rolled away into a large settlement, he directed Steve toward it.

“When you touch me, you mustn't show affection.”

The look Steve gave him was full of heartbreak and misunderstanding.

“This is a Christian place.” He indicated the largest structure, situated atop a hill for all the village to see. “Christians don't tolerate men lying with other men. They think it's sinful.”

“Why?”

“No one has adequately explained why to me. Christians have a tendency to vilify sex. If they knew about us, their reception would most likely become violent.”

“I don't understand. They believe men lying with men is sinful, but they also demand everyone who doesn't subscribe to their beliefs should also behave in that manner.”

Bucky shrugged. Religious dogma had always left him feeling flummoxed. Either they were turning the other cheek or invading their neighbors and wiping out entire populations so the old faith couldn't bleed into their own people. He didn't even much believe in his own gods let alone a foreign faith.

So they walked, shoulders brushing occasionally, to the center of town where a market was in full swing. People sold excess crops, domesticated animals, and various crafts. It was noisy. There were too many people, and it aggravated his lingering headache.

One thing he noticed, though, was how the local Gaelic had become infused with Scandinavian words. It meant they were close to a settlement of Northmen, close enough that these people regularly encountered them and had created a pidgin language to communicate.

He approached a man standing beside a stall and asked in pidgin-Norse, “What kingdom is this?”

“Cóiced Laigen,” responded the man in a gruff voice.

So they were on Eire. He'd suspected as much, but the confirmation settled him. He returned to Steve, who looked completely out of place amidst the locals. “We keep heading north. If Thorir and the longship survived the storm, they would have sailed to port in Dublin. We'll rendezvous with them there, collect Natasha, and move on toward Baile.”

Steve didn't offer any complaint over the grueling pace Bucky had set them to.

But in the light of day, and surrounded by healthy people, the strain could been seen. He looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. His hair was lackluster in the afternoon sunshine, and a pallor had overtaken his complexion.

“Are you unwell?”

“I can keep up.”

“That isn't what I asked, Steve.”

His jaw jutted into a look Bucky recognized as stubbornness, and he repeated, “I can keep up.”

He batted Steve's hands aside and pressed his own against Steve's forehead. The heat of fever radiated from his flesh. It wasn't surprising. A body that had never encountered a particular landmass or population before was often more susceptible to the local ailments. 

They'd been drinking the water of Eire and had both been suffering gastric discomfort, Steve more so. The past week had seen them encountering people on a more regular basis, exposing Steve to various new illness he'd never been exposed to before.

“We'll rest here until your fever has gone down.”

“How?” Steve demanded. “We have no coin.”

“Will you let me handle the particulars?”

Another stubborn look appeared on Steve's face. He hugged himself, but his fever chills were obvious in the way his body vibrated. A smaller man may have shaken apart into a pile of bones.

Bucky's solution to their situation wasn't, surprisingly, stealing. Rather, he made arrangements with a farmer to make use of his barn. The elderly man's sons had been called off to battle against a local túath, so he didn't have enough hands to tend the animals and fields.

The barn suited their needs well enough, and his back was strong enough to work for their housing and food. He settled Steve on a makeshift bed of straw only to have Steve pitch a fit when he wasn't allowed to help Bucky with the farmstead chores.

“Sit,” he ground out. “Rest. Those are your duties at present. I will not have the heir of Baile die because he's a stubborn fool who doesn't know how to care for himself when unwell.”

An ill Steve was a cranky Steve, something made abundantly clear when he made a crude gesture in Bucky's direction and started pouting like a toddler who wasn't allowed to have his way.

Bucky ignored him. It was the only way to keep his sanity.

Outside, he stripped down to his trousers, allowing the sun to bake his naked back. He'd once helped Papa Dimitei and his uncles with chores around their farmstead and didn't need instruction on gathering vegetables: carrots and parsnips, cabbage and onions. 

He had forgotten how backbreaking the work was, and by the end of the day, he was ready to collapse. Finian, garbed in the local léine or long-tunic that was belted at the waist, stepped from his house and clapped Bucky's back.

“You do good work.” He produced heaping bowls of porridge and cheese in wooden bowls.

Bucky collected the offering and returned to the barn to find Steve sleeping, which was good. He hated to disturb him, but they hadn't eaten all day, and food was conducive to wellness. While nibbling on a piece of cheese, he shook Steve's shoulder.

He was burning up.

“Steve, open your eyes for me.”

He did.

“You need to eat something. Can you sit up?”

He nodded and struggled into a seated position, at which point, he snatched the wooden mug filled with cool water and drank it down in one go. A quick check assured Bucky his fever wasn't any worse than the morning which was a good sign.

Together, they ate their porridge, thick with barley, onions, carrots, and herbs. Pieces of bacon added additional nutrition. So while the porridge didn't look like much, it was bursting with flavor, and Bucky scarfed his down like a starving animal. Steve was less enthusiastic.

“You can't complain about watching me kill fish. Eat up. You need the strength.”

“I remembered something,” Steve said after a few spoonfuls of food. His voice was rough. Swallowing seemed to cause discomfort. “I'm young in the memory. The priest is reading my last rites. My mother sits nearby. I think I was dying.”

Bucky didn't respond, just listened.

“I think I was sick a lot as a child. Lord Aetius said I was small when I came to him-- when he purchased me. He thought I would stay small and saw the value of a my youthful body. But I didn't. I grew into this.” He indicated his current body.

“You're remembering more about your time before slavery,” commented Bucky.

“Before, I didn't want to leave my home. The world is too big and frightening, but I think, now, that I want to see this place where I was born, where my mother gave her life defending her people.”

He spanned the distance between them and touched Steve's knee. “You will. I'll make sure of it, and when we defeat Pierce, I'll leave. You won't be beholden to me.”

“And if I don't want you to leave?”

“Then I'll stay.”

“For how long?”

“As long as you'll have me.”


	20. In The Form Of A Scroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transitions as Steve begins to learn how to be his own man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have fought and struggled with this chapter and am finally giving up and calling it done. It's one of those chapters where nothing much happens, but what does happen needs to in order to set up further plot points. So forgive its untidiness and stilted quality.

After a sennight spent cooped up inside, Bucky pronounced Steve well enough to leave the barn. Steve's enthusiasm, though, lasted as long as it took for him to reach their host's house where a sharp comment brought him up short. 

“Sit in the shade here on the stoop.”

“You said I could--”

Before he could finish his comment, Bucky shoved a clay bowl filled with pea pods into his hands with instructions to crack them and remove the peas for tomorrow's super.

“This is not--”

“No arguments. You've been incredibly ill. If you thought I'd let you in the fields doing physical labor, your fever must have gone deep into your skull.” Bucky emphasized his comment by knocking his knuckles against Steve's hair.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Steve made his displeasure known by hot, mulish glances and through ignoring his companion's attempts to draw him into conversation. His stubbornness, in turn, fueled Bucky's, and before either realized it, they were in the midst of a war of attrition. If anyone wanted his opinion, he was faring better, as isolation was something he was used to. Bucky, on the other hand, had spent the better part of his life surrounded by a tight-knit crew.

The heat of the day saw Steve lowering the top half of the léine their host had given him to wear. The shoulders and arms of the garment sagged around his waist where the tunic was belted. The garment's skirt came down past his knees. Made it easy to take care curing his lingering gastric trouble.

Finian plopped down beside him and offered a cup of honey mead, which he accepted gratefully. The mead was dry and crisp and eased his parched throat.

“You and your friend must start talking soon. My goats will lose their milk if you continue glaring like devils at each other.”

Bucky had been teaching him languages other than Latin for some time now, but conversing in what his teacher called pidgin-Norse meant he spoke more slowly and needed extra time to formulate his words. Lucky for him, Finian was the patient sort. 

He hesitated to lay blame at Bucky's feet even though it was Bucky's fault. A slave received blame; they didn't assign it. Instead, he settled for saying, “Tell that to him.”

At which point, Finian offered a dry crackle of laughter and held his stomach. “Stubborn as a pair of old goats, I tell you.” A moment of comfortable silence fell between them. “He does mother you like a man what's got more invested than friendship.”

Steve tensed. Bucky's warning about people's reactions to finding out they were affectionate sat at the forefront of his mind, but the conversation went no further when both men spied a figure wearing brown robes strolling over the crest of a nearby hill. A basket dangled from the crook of his arm, and Finian greeted the newcomer with an enthusiastic wave.

“Brother Aban,” he shouted.

The rapid Gaelic both men used far surpassed Steve's rudimentary understanding, something over which he felt a sharp sting. This was his country, but he knew very little about their language. The visitor faced Steve and spoke just as rapidly, but Finian was quick to explain Steve's lack of skill with the local tongue.

“You must be one of Finian's guests,” Aban repeated.

Unsure about the proper method of greeting, Steve set aside his bowl and climbed to his feet.

“This is Brother Aban. He's one of the monks from the abbey the next country over.”

“I don't know what a monk is,” he admitted. “Or an abbey.”

“Have you not heard of the glory of Christ?”

“I have...” He allowed the comment to trail off while trying to find the appropriate answer. “I have been away for most of my life.” 

“Then let me share with you the good word while Finian finishes the meal. Come, we'll drink together and talk of the wonders of our holy father.”

Steve glanced toward the distant field where Bucky was a speck on the horizon, his lean body swaying with each swing of the scythe, but he still struggled with the ability to say no. Besides, he wanted to hear more about Christ, to learn everything he could about the people of his country.

As he stepped inside, Brother Aban touched his back and asked, “An Angel's kiss? This birthmark must mean great things in your future. Surely you are a defender of the faith to bear the mark of a shield upon your flesh. Our Holy Father has set aside for you important work.”

Conversation was stunted given the differences in their languages, but Steve paid what attention he could to the monk's lessons, most of which had no practical application in his own life. There was the concept of sin and eternal damnation, but he couldn't see the justice in punishing someone for an eternity over a crime committed during a person's fleeting years alive.

Mostly, Brother Aban pushed for him to become baptized with little explanation as to why he should other than that it was the appropriate thing to do. Finian admitted once while Brother Aban's back was turned that no one really understood half the things the monks twittered on about given that services were in Latin and the peasant population of Eire had no use for learning Latin.

So Steve was relieved when Bucky came in for the main meal the day when the sun reached its zenith. He upended a bucket of water over his head to chase away the sweat lingering on his skin and looked thrice at their guest. The scowl he donned wasn't nearly as snarly as Bucky wanted people to believe.

They all sat down at the table for porridge and cheese. In honor of their company, Finian brought up a bottle of dark liquor and a wheel of earthy bread he carved with a knife. Steve missed bread, so the treat was something he enjoyed while listening to the two men of Eire gossip. The blacksmith's wife had brought him before the court on charges of being unable to fulfill his conjugal duties, the trial for which most members of the village had attended. When several women of ill repute failed to stir his loins, the court had granted her a divorce and all her husband's properties.

Bucky and he listened more intently when talk turned toward the Northmen presence in Dublin. Raids had been on the decline for the past year, with the foreigners turning their attention from plunder to sowing the land. It was a time in which pagans flocked to Christianity, something Brother Aban took as evidence of the justness of his beliefs.

And while Bucky turned his nose up at thoughts of conversion, Steve felt torn between Bucky's expectations and his own curiosity. He wanted to know about this new breed of faith that was whispered about behind the sacred doors of temples.

It was the cause of the argument that broke out between them as soon as they were safely ensconced inside the barn after the evening's chores, an argument that culminated in Bucky's attempt to forbid Steve from attending mass that week.

“I am not your slave!”

Thunderous silence turned the interior to static.

“Steve--” Bucky appeared uncertain of how to proceed.

“You were the one who took that option away from me, remember? You want me to live as a free man? That means I make my own decisions. That means you can do nothing to stop me short of putting me beneath your boot heel, and if you are the man I think you are, you'll find that loathsome.”

“I didn't mean to-- Good men go into their churches and come out changed. Men go into the water and are brought out different. Their god puts men on their knees, makes them beholden to him. Your salvation won't be in your own hands but in the hands of some other being.”

“A building can't change me,” he reassured. “Besides, these are the people I will have to live with. My people, the people you say I am born to rule. Shouldn't I know their beliefs, too?”

Bucky swallowed and said something in his own language, words Steve couldn't translate.

*

“What will happen to me when you love your own people more?”

That is what he'd said to Steve before Steve had left, shoulders straight and head high. The whole thing was the sort of situation he hadn't counted on upon starting what was quickly turning into a fiasco for Bucky. Caring about Steve was one thing. Feeling like he had to compete with Steve's native kin was something different. After all, why should Steve choose him when he'd plotted to use Steve?

He couldn't shake the feeling he was about to be made obsolete, the same way he'd been cast aside when Arkady and the others had converted to Christianity. And since when did it matter so much to him what Steve's long-term plans were? Since when did it matter if Steve had no further use for him? He was used to being alone. He was used to rejection.

Teeth clenched, he kicked a barn plank. It wasn't nearly enough to expel the tension or relieve him of his stormy emotions. A gusty sigh clogged in his throat. He wouldn't call it a sob. Men didn't cry. Weeping was a woman's pastime. Rather, he clapped a hand over his mouth and allowed his body to quake with shudders through the sun sliding beyond the horizon and the fall of darkness.

He shook, and he shook while the quietude of night settled over the barn. Soon enough, he felt like he would come apart, like dusty mosaic pieces scattered in the wind.

So distraught was he that he didn't hear the barn door creak open nor see Steve enter, not until Steve was nearly on top of him, and the sudden appearance of the dark shadow sent him scrambling for a weapon that should never have been far from his hand to begin with.

“Bucky, stop.”

A firm grip clamped like a manacle around his wrist. Awareness bled through the haze, and he soon felt the familiar press of Steve against his body.

“You're shaking,” he said with a note of concern. “Why are you shaking? Did something happen?”

“No,” he said through tight lips. “I'm fine.”

“You don't have to be fine.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Look at me.”

Hands newly toughened by calluses cupped his jaw and urged his face up. “You don't have to be strong all the time.”

“Arkady said--”

“Fuck what Arkady said. You're not Arkady. You're Bucky.”

Caught between two worlds, he allowed his head to sag forward against Steve's chest. He broke the silence by asking, “Did you find evening mass informative?”

“I found it to be repetitive. It was much like faking my climax with clients who expected me to peak. Once you're in the habit of doing it, all the meaning behind it is lost.”

Bucky couldn't swallow a bark of laughter. Then, without stopping to question himself, he said, “I want you inside me, Steve. Show me what it's like to be soft.”


	21. With Gold Leaf Adroend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky grow closer.

The first touch of Steve's fingers, damp with olive oil, against his hole made him shy away, made his body tighten and his heart kick like a rabbit against his chest wall. Steve didn't let him go but did withdraw his fingers. Rather, he pressed his face into Bucky's nape, as they were lying with his back against Steve's chest.

Steve hushed him in Norse and said, “Relax, sweeting. Nothing happens here unless you enjoy it. You stop enjoying it, we stop doing it. Understand?”

He nodded and allowed himself a moment to calm his breathing. He tried to find that place from long ago, that time when he had welcomed Rambi into his body with joy and pleasure. A long time had pased since that far-away moment. He'd circled the world. He'd fought in wars. He'd won exquisite armor from the king of the Danelaw. He'd survived horrific injury. This, too, was something he could add to his accolades because he wasn't Arkady, and he wasn't his father.

When he nodded, Steve's blunt fingers returned to him, fingertips teasing his hole with gentle circles. Goosebumps raced across his skin. Once he overcame the desire to run, the desire to deny this part of himself, he relaxed enough to allow a finger inside in his body.

The breach stung a little, but it was a pain that quickly faded into an odd sensation.

“You feel so good around my finger,” Steve murmured into his skin. “So tight. So hot. Relax, my darling. It will feel pleasant soon. If it doesn't, you tell me, and we'll stop. Understood?”

“Yes.” The word rushed out from his lips on an exhale.

Steve was right. It didn't feel pleasant at first. More awkward than anything, but the more he relaxed and the deeper the invading digit pushed, the more he understood the appeal. He felt full, pleasantly so. Mostly, he felt vulnerable. With any other person, the vulnerability would be impossible.

Then that finger pressed against a bundle of flesh inside his body that caused excitement to pool inside his loins. His cock jumped. A startled breath punched from his chest.

“There? That's where you like it?”

He licked his lips and nodded. He allowed his legs to loosen, the top leg sliding onto the blanket on which they lay. His balls hairy balls were cradled between his legs.

“Let's see how much you like it,” Steve murmured, still in Norse.

A second finger slipped inside him. Between the oil and the pleasure singing through his body, the second went in easier. Then two fingers pressed against that secret spot, and he moaned. There was no swallowing it down, not desire to muffle himself with Steve singing him praises so prettily.

“Am I clean enough?” he asked. “Did I clean myself enough for you.”

“Yes, my darling. You did such a wonderful job.”

The praise dripping from his lover's tongue made him feel... It was an elusive thing. He felt light as a bird. If he could spread his wings, the wind could lift him aloft and send him sailing through the skies. Steve was his wings. Steve had always been his wings. How his life had been inauthentic before meeting Steve, before relearning what it meant to be himself.

“Still feeling good?”

“So good,” he responded.

Something small and meek left his throat when Steve's fingers retreated. They were replaced by the blunt head of Steve's cock, thick and dripping with oil.

“Open for me, sweeting. I have you, and I won't let you go.”

“Please,” he pleaded, body aching for Steve, ass empty and waiting.

The slow drag of Steve's cock entering him caused a twinge of pain. He stiffened, so his lover instantly eased the inward press. Warm arms encircled him and pulled him back against a strong chest.

“It's fine,” he slurred, punch-drunk on Steve's care. “You can go again.”

Upon his permission, Steve slid a palm down Bucky's leg, cupped his knee, and lifted his leg. Steve spread him open and pushed the rest of the way inside. They were clamped together. Tight. Crisp pubic hair against his ass. Molded together like they could become one.

Bucky leaned against Steve and allowed himself to surrender and be taken. The fullness inside him bled from discomfort to pleasure in the space of a few breaths, and he grasped hold of Steve's strong forearm to keep from floating away from this moment.

“My darling,” Steve breathed, breath hot against his ear. “My darling, you should see yourself. So beautiful, the way you surrender to me. You didn't have to surrender, but you did, and it's all the sweeter. Tell me how you feel. Do you like me inside you?”

“I like--” He panted a few breaths and licked his lips to restore some moisture to them. “Hold me tight, Stevie. Hold me tight and don't let me go.”

Steve surrounded him. He draped Bucky's leg back over his hip in order to have both arms free to clutch him tight. He folded Bucky's arms to keep them flush against Bucky's chest and caged him with those big arms, caught all his pieces and pulled them back into the whole.

“Never. I'll never let you go, sweeting. But you didn't answer me. Do you like having me inside?”

“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”

That was all it took for Steve to begin pulsing his hips, shifting himself inside Bucky's tight channel. When he finally did pull out, it was only to press back inside. It was the slow drag out and the quick punch in, the bulbous head sliding along that secret spot inside him that made everything more intense.

Everything became hazy. He strained against Steve's grip, but Steve didn't let him go, not once, so he turned his head enough to press his mouth against the golden hair on Steve's face. He nipped the flesh there, filled his nostrils with Steve.

His cock, finally fattening, rested along his thigh, unattended, but he wasn't in a hurry to pay it any mind. Here was no hurry to bring a climax to their intimacy.

After a while, Steve eased out long enough to slick himself with more oil, and Bucky took the opportunity to push Steve onto his back.

Bucky straddled him. He straddled him and guided the fat cock back inside himself, sinking down until he'd sheathed it to completion, making Steve groan. Steve's hands immediately went to his hips to hold onto him, to continue holding him together.

This way, he could look down at his lover, and he turned the tables on Steve. “Do I feel good inside? Do you like the way I feel clenching around you?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. My darling, you feel amazing. You look amazing sitting on my cock.”

The hands previously clenched on his hips slid up his body. They felt luxurious roughing across his nipples and clasping his neck, not to hurt but to draw him down into a breathy kiss.

“Show me how to move,” he breathed into Steve's mouth.

Steve did. Hands back on his hips. He showed Bucky how to rock himself, how to work his hips until he found just that right angle that felt the best. And how to bounce. Bucky liked bouncing on Steve's cock, liked the punch of it driving into him, liked the way his cock bobbed, fully engorged, against his stomach, leaving ribbons of fluid smeared across his flesh.

“My darling, just like that. You'll make me come if you keep doing that.”

“Good.”

“You want me to come?”

“I want to feel you come inside me so I can carry part of your with me always. Always, Stevie. Please, don't let me go. I don't want you to let me go.”

Steve took his statement quite literally and pulled him tight against Steve's chest. Without further warning, he rolled them until Bucky was beneath him, until Steve's big body pressed him into the hay and helped him to feel grounded. He could look up into Steve's eyes and allow himself to let go.

Steve situated himself on his knees and held Bucky's thighs open in order to drive into him with rapid thrusts that sent Bucky reeling. The sounds of their flesh slapping together, their panted breaths, their soft words filled the barn, and Bucky tightened.

He clutched his lover's shoulders and couldn't help the low, whining noises he emitted. When he came, he arched his back to rub his cock against Steve's taut stomach. The climax dragged him over the edge of the world. Semen shot across their stomachs. A drop or two landed on his lips, and he swiped it away with his own tongue while urging Steve onward.

“Darling,” he said with a warble in his voice, “darling, I'm going to--” His statement turned into a long, low groan when he spent himself inside Bucky.

He could feel Steve's cock pulsing inside him, could feel the wetness and mess as Steve's semen coated his channel, and it was the most incredible thing in the world.

And afterward, Steve still didn't let him go. Rather, they curled up together, one of Bucky's knees between Steve's legs, their sweat-sticky skin pressed together.


	22. And I Found It One Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky reaches Dublin.

Bucky procrastinated leaving Finian's farm. They were warm there. They were safe there. He didn't need to confront the prospect of losing Steve to his people, but there was only so long they could delay, and after a fortnight, they left to continue their march north.

He wasn't naive. He knew that retaking Baile wasn't such a simple matter as asking Pierce to hand over control to the Rogers heir. Pierce had enough support, enough trained men entrenched inside the small kingdom to hold against invasion. They would need support from the surrounding túatha. They would also need support from Thorir, assuming the crew had survived the storm.

So it was to Dublin they traveled, taking open roads now that they were garbed in the local clothing and carrying the local gear. It meant travel was faster. It also meant Steve was exposed to more of the people he should have grown up around, and watching him made Bucky's heart clench.

Steve was open and jovial. He insisted they stop to help a family whose cart had gotten stuck in a rut, and his language skills... He picked up languages like a sponge and was soon able to hold basic conversations with the people they passed. 

People were drawn to him in turn. He was of unusual height and breadth for the people of Eire, and that alone made him stand out in a crowd, but it wasn't the only thing that made him a beacon. His enthusiasm was infectious, his eyes bright, his mouth often curling in a smile.

And Bucky? He felt his heart stutter just looking at Steovan. It was a heart that was full with some new emotion he hadn't experienced before; it was full of wonder, full of love. And therein lay the tragedy. He had fallen in love with a man he'd set out to use for his own gain.

They were only a few days outside of Dublin—and oh how Bucky hated counting down the days when their idyllic interlude would end and he had to share Steve with others—and walking down a well-traveled road when a sizable party approached. Bucky stepped off the road to let them pass, but they didn't pass. No, they reined their horses to a stop.

Alexander Pierce dismounted. It had been some years since Bucky had seen him in the Danelaw court, but Pierce hadn't changed much. His fair hair had faded, and he new lines etched his face, but he still retained that silent air of dignity that wrapped around him like a cloak.

Tension snapped Bucky tight because not only did the party contain Alexander Pierce. It also contained Father Aban, who dismounted and whispered something into Pierce's ear.

Pierce smiled his snake-like grin and spoke in the native Gaelic. “We have yet to meet. Our name is Alexander Pierce. We are king of Baile, a country I believe you might be familiar with.”

Steve glanced between Bucky and Pierce as though looking for a clue as to how to handle the situation. “I think you already know me,” he responded while leveling a stern look in Father Aban's direction.

“We would like to extend an invitation to you and your guest, of course, to join us at our court.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but we have pressing business in Dublin,” Bucky cut in.

“We insist,” Pierce returned.

Learning wasn't required to know how bad an idea it was to walk willingly into Baile while it was under Alexander's control. It was not hospitality Pierce offered, but a preemptive strike in response to the danger Steve posed. So Bucky lowered a hand to his weapon.

“You're not taking him.”

Pierce looked more closely at him. “We recognize your face. They called you Winter's Soldier in the Danelaw, yes? You were one of Arkady's oarsmen.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and he nodded once.

“Come now,” Pierce commented, the rigidness of his expression melting into something softer, something open and more welcoming. “Surely we can solve this without unpleasantness. You have found the son of Saraid Rogers and wish to supplant us. Surely you understand we can't allow this.

“So we will come to some understanding that is mutually beneficial. Surrender him without a fight and join my cause. You will be rewarded with property. Enough with which to sustain a family.”

The thing was? Bucky was not a good man. Not like Steve. He was a selfish man, and some part of him suggested taking the deal would be the best way to meet his goals. With land, he could be proud of himself. With land, he could rescue his mother from the ignominy in which she lived. With land, he could have a wife and children, become a proper Norseman.

And maybe he took too long to answer because the look of heartbreak, the look of betrayal, on Steve's face jabbed him in the guts. Of course he couldn't do that. Of course his goals weren't more important than Steve's life. Pierce wouldn't just banish Steve to some country home; he would kill him.

“I think you're mistaken about the kind of man I am,” he finally said. “Steovan isn't mine to sell, and if you want him, you'll go through me to get him.”

Was it smart? No. He couldn't win this battle. The numbers were against him. Any alternative required standing down and allowing Steve to be taken, so he placed himself between the armed combatants and Steve and told him to run.

His preemptive strike against Pierce took the older man off guard, but he side-stepped quickly enough to avoid injury as his attendants rushed to intercept Bucky's attack. Steel clashed against steel in a cacophony of sound. Chaos exploded on the road, and Steve didn't run. Steve used the ax he carried to drive back an advancing guard with a few clumsy moves.

Bucky ducked beneath a swing and brought his weapon up into the soft tissue of a man's inner elbow, severing muscle and nicking bone. Then, he dropped back to intercept another blade. Said blade twisted around his, skated across steel, and bit into his hip. He hissed but didn't stop. The stakes were too high to stop over first blood.

But the conclusion was already fated because the second an enemy soldier disarmed Steve, who hadn't had time to develop his fighting skills, things were done. Seeing the length of steel against Steve's throat, watching a dribble of blood slip down that pale skin made Bucky back off and throw down his weapon. He raised both hands into the air.

“You should have taken our offer,” Pierce said, his voice less-than-pleasant. “Kill him.”

“No!” Steve struggled against the man holding a knife to his throat. “You don't want me dead or you would have already killed me. So you want me for something. Whatever it is, I'll cooperate if you leave him alive. Just let him go, and I'll do whatever you want.”

Pierce smacked Steve's mouth. “You think you can bargain with a king?”

A pink tongue licked the blood from his mouth. Something hardened in Steve's expression, and he said, “I'm the king of Baile. You're the one playing at being more than you are.”

“Cut off his thumb. A reminder who holds his fate.”

Pierce moved to walk toward his mount when one of his attendants appeared at his elbow. The man was tall and broad, nearly as much as Steve, with gray lacing his hair. He said, “Sire, the Lia Fáil won't scream for any king who isn't perfect of body.”

Pierce did not like being talked back to. That much was clear by his expression, but it softened and nodded in acceptance of his attendant's counsel. “Then leave him whole of body. There are many things that can be done to a man without permanently disfiguring him.”

“And him?” The man waved toward Bucky.

The response was so soft Bucky couldn't hear, but he knew his fate wouldn't be left to chance. He took a step toward Steve only for Steve to warn him away.

“Just go. Find Thorir. You've done what you promised. You brought me home.”

“Steve--”

“Go. Don't make me live with your death on my hands.”

Of course, it wasn't so simple as that. His guts twisted as he watched men bind Steve and place him atop a horse. They threatened to crawl from his throat when Pierce's attendant took the reins of Steve's horse and guided it away. He wanted to say something. He wanted to proclaim his love. He wanted to tell Steve he'd find a way to get him back but held his tongue in the face of the three men who stayed behind to deal with him.

They dealt with him in a brutal way but hadn't counted on the skill and determination of Winter's Soldier nor the heart of a man when he fought for someone he loved.

*

Three days later, he entered the port city of Dublin and inhaled the salt coming in off the sea. He stood atop a hill and looked down at the river and the harbor and the boats moored there while off-loading and on-loading cargo. His body ached. Taking one more step felt like it would ruin him, but he took that step. And he took the one following. Because as long as Steve was alive, he had to try to free him.

He made his way through the city, the streets cramped with haphazard buildings and street vendors, and entered the harbor. Dragon prows were everywhere. Norse scroll-work mingled with Celtic knot-work. Door posts were engraved with runic script. Everywhere, he could smell frying meat, human bodies, and animals.

Then he saw it. Against all odds, he saw the scrolled prow of Thorir's ship. It didn't depict a dragon. Rather, it displayed intricate carvings of Mjolnir, Thor's legendary hammer. He didn't quite believe his eyes. He had hoped they had survived the storm, of course, but to survive the storm and still be in Dublin? Some might call it fate.

“Sifrir, Brunnhilde, it's Bucky!”

He heard Natalia long before he saw her. She vaulted down the ramp and sprinted toward him, her youthful body nimble as it twisted in and around the crowds moving on the main dock. Relief made him open his arms, and she threw herself into them.

It was all he could do to hold her up, to bury his face in her fiery hair and breathe in the scent of her. It wasn't until that point he realized how much he'd missed her. How much he'd ached for her casual humor and her inability to take a situation seriously.

Before long, he found himself surrounded by crew members. Big hands clapped him on his shoulders. Loud voices boomed a welcome.

“You stayed,” he breathed into Natalia's hair.

“Of course we stayed,” Thorir, who had just come down the ramp, said. “You are one of us.”

“You stayed,” he repeated. Arkady wouldn't have stayed. Arkady wouldn't even accept him as he was let alone have remained in port for nigh on a month in the hopes he would turn up.

“Where's Steovan?” asked Volstagg.


	23. In A Drawer Of Old Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally arrives in Baile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions of body parts.
> 
> Note: From what I could find, the Oyoko Clan was one of the precursors and founders of the Asante Empire (around the 17th century) in Ghana, but there were numerous, highly-advanced cultures in that area of Africa that were known for their architecture and were rich with gold. They were also incredible tradesmen and established numerous trade routes in Africa. Records from the pre-Asante period seem slim, so if anyone has any better research on this, do let me know.

Steve wasn't bound when they topped a hillock and rode down the other side. Below them stood a semi-complete ring of stone. People toiled in groups to finish its construction. Inside the fortifications, several rectangular buildings awaited. The walls were low and made of stone and possessed steep roofs of tightly woven thatch.

Other homes and various structures could be found spilling out from the old ringfort to form a sizable settlement filled with people with various social status. The wealthiest wore long tunics belted at the waist and embroidered with colored thread. The poorest were relegated to knee-length breeches and tunics, much of their cloth threadbare and their bodies wearied from their hard lives.

These were his people, he realized. This was the place he'd been born. What remained of the earthen fortification was where his mother had stood against the invaders with nothing but a shield and her will.

They stopped before the largest of the structures to dismount, and as he hadn't given them any trouble thus far, they still didn't bother restraining him. Rather, Brock Rumlow, adviser to Alexander, caught Steve's elbow to take him round to the back of the house where a smaller structure awaited.

“Run, and the blacksmith will make chains to fit your ankles,” warned Brock.

“Where would I go?” asked Steve.

That was the devilry of it. In the middle of Alexander's base of power, where would he run? Who would he run to? Who in the whole of Eire would believe him were he to speak the truth of his heritage? He had no one but himself now.

Rumlow pushed him inside the home. On closer inspection, he thought it may have once been used to house animals, but there was a bed, a place for a fire and a table and chair. They were small comforts. He would much rather have the sun. When the door shut behind him, the room was plunged into darkness. No windows existed to let in the light. There was only a hole at the apex of the roof to allow smoke to escape. So there he stood. Alone in the darkness without even a window to look out and watch the world move around him. No way for him to look at the sky and wish himself a bird to fly far, far away.

No one came to speak with him. Not even the two guards stationed outside the door would engage in conversation even though he tried. A night and a day passed. Someone left food outside the door, food which he ate with an appetite. At least they didn't mean to starve him.

Another night and day passed.

Then the door opened and Brock took him by the arm again to direct him toward Alexander's home. He was petulant from being ignored for so long, and his eyes hurt as they adjusted to the sunlight. So he pulled free of Brock and snapped, “I'm not a child who requires being led by the hand.”

“There are times,” remarked Brock, “when your mouth doesn't know its true place in this world. You live by Alexander's good grace. Word of advice. Don't make him regret granting small mercies.”

“Small mercies? And just what will you do to terrorize me? Rape me?”

Brock's mouth twisted into something ugly. “Our souls in this kingdom belong to God.”

Steve allowed himself a moment of relief. He could have tolerated rape. It had been done often enough to him in the past, but to hear that torture wouldn't be applied made him relieved. 

Both men ducked through the low entrance and into a large chamber. The interior was dim and smoky despite the central hole in the roof. A noxious odor permeated the space, like rotting flesh. Like his own small residence, there weren't any windows, nothing to allow fresh circulate, and he suddenly felt caged. Claustrophobic. With no where to run and no air to breathe. It was as different as night was to day compared to his home in Constantinople, with its numerous windows and balconies.

So overwhelmed was he that he didn't immediately notice the people. They crowded the interior but parted upon his arrival to allow him passage to a raised platform. Alexander sat upon that platform in a large, wooden chair. A slim circlet of gold rested on his forehead.

He stumbled the first step from the force with which Brock pushed him but found his footing and approached. Along the way, he mimicked Bucky's stance: shoulders straight, head high, confidence oozing from his skin. By the time he neared the platform, he hoped he embodied a speck of the pride Bucky wore with aplomb.

“Good people,” Alexander began, “God has worked a miracle. He has seen fit to return home our lost son, the pride of Baile, the son of Saraid Rogers. Brock, his shirt.”

He didn't bother struggling. What good would a show of force be in the midst of the enemy with no way of escape? It would only cause him more misery, so he removed his shirt and turned to allow the people to see the birthmark. 

Low voices whispered throughout the house.

“The shield.”

Someone rushed forward and presented to Alexander a round shield.

“This was your mother's, boy,” said Alexander, “the same she used atop the ringfort to stop the final blow from King Ailen long enough to put her knife through his throat.”

Everything fell away, the people, the smoke, the closeness, as he took the offered shield into his own hands. It seemed so nondescript. It was roughly a foot and a half in diameter, and was made of tightly-woven wicker that was covered in bleached animal hide. Red, blue, and white circles had been painted on the hide but was flaking in places, attesting to its age.

His mother had touched it. His mother had wielded it to save her people. Grim-faced, he turned to look at Alexander. “What do you want from me?”

“Only for you to seize your birthright.”

“This is my birthright.” He swept his hand to indicate everything surrounding them.

“You think too small, boy. We will take you to Tara. You will touch the Stone of Destiny. It will sing for you, a blood son of Baile, and together, we will seize all of Eire from Flann Sinna, who is little better than a pretender.”

Steve realized how much of a disadvantage he operated under, as he had no clue what the Stone of Destiny was and no idea about the politics of Eire. He was quiet for a moment before responding, “And if I refuse? If I don't cooperate with your plans for me?” Because he possessed no delusions Alexander would win a crown for him and turn it over peacefully.

“There are worse things than living, boy.”

His attention was directed to a chest sitting beside the throne, the lid of which Brock threw open. A cloud of flies poured out along with a foul stench that threatened to turn his stomach. Inside rested dismembered body parts: hands, ears, cocks, testicles. They were all in various states of decay, and Steve didn't bother covering his mouth and nose; he was too busy emptying the contents of his stomach on the wooden floor.

“Those who have defied us have not met a kind fate, Steovan. We plead with you not to defy us. Cooperate, boy, and you'll have the run of the ringfort. Refuse, and...” He didn't bother finishing, just swept his hand toward the trophy chest.

*

Steve spent the rest of the day inside the tiny house they mockingly called his. It wasn't his. Nothing in Baile was his. He was only a means to an end. Once Alexander completed his goals, he would be killed and tossed into a ditch somewhere. The worst? He didn't even know if Bucky was alive, if Bucky would bother coming for him.

After that first day, stress and inactivity drove him out of doors, and Pierce hadn't lied. None of his guards attempted to stop him so long as he didn't approach the unfinished gap in the stone wall surrounding the community. He paced the area, unsettled by the people who bowed at his passing.

One of the first things he noticed was how diverse the people were. Most of them appeared of Gaelic descent, but there were also people of darker skin, Africans and Persians. A whole squadron of men and women bearing arms made their base near the breach in the wall. They lived out of tents and kept their own goats and a few cattle.

Their leader often perched on a carved, wooden stool. It had a curved seat that was supported by a creature Steve hadn't seen before. The creature was stocky with a long nose and protruding tusks. He stared at it so long one day that the man called out to him.

“Ɔsono,” he said. He repeated in Gaelic, “Elephant.”

“Elephant,” Steve parroted.

“It is a creature native to my birthplace.”

“And where's that?”

“The Oyoko Clan.”

“Your Gaelic is better than mine,” commented Steve.

It amused the man. There was such light in his gap-toothed smile that Steve, for the first time since being separated from Bucky, felt safe. “We know many languages.” He indicated the people surrounding him. 

One woman who wore a beaded covering over her breasts and her long hair in twists, sharpened her spear point and said something to her compatriot in their native tongue.

Rising, the man offered his hand. “The Hebrews with which we have spent much time trading call me Samuel. You may do the same.”

Steve wasn't sure what gesture was expected of him, so he lifted his hand in mimic of Samuel's, and they clasped them together. “I'm Steovan.”

“Come inside, Steovan. Let us share food and drink and a moment away from your shadows.” He indicated the guards loitering nearby.

Steve had never felt so grateful in his life for a stranger's hospitality then when they ducked inside the tent away from prying eyes. There did partake in a meal rich with flavors he'd never tasted before, and for a while, things seemed lighter.


	24. Hidden Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve starts to play the game. Sam is sassy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Uncomfortable references to bodily fluids.

Two weeks later, Brock caught him attempting to slip outside the ringfort walls hidden amongst a wagon-load of supplies. The beating he received left him mottled blue, black, and purple, but it was the easiest part of his punishment. Pain, he could deal with. Being thrown into a pit in the ground barely large enough to contain him and left to rot was something altogether more damaging.

He was given enough water to keep him alive through a slatted grate covering the pit. The grate was both a blessing and a curse. It allowed him to see the sun, the moon, the stars. It also allowed people loyal to Pierce to piss on him or throw offal and shit into the hole with him.

But in the deepest cover of night, men and women who remembered Saraid sometimes passed him bits of food or stopped for a word of comfort. On the hottest of days, Samuel came to stand sentinel nearby, the breadth of his body blocking the searing sun from burning his skin.

“Fool,” Samuel snapped. “Did you think he would be so careless? Pierce has held these lands against invasion from the surrounding countries. Do not mistake his arrogance for foolishness.”

Steve tried to speak, but his voice ground like broken glass.

“Listen. Do not be a brute. Use your brain. Play his game. Allow him to underestimate you.”

“Why should I trust you?” he managed to croak.

“Your plight has moved me.”

Steve snorted.

Samuel's husky laugh felt good.

“The Stone of Destiny is a myth. It will never sing to declare a high king of Eire.”

“How do you know?”

“Your people are backwards, uneducated, and trust the word of men who claim to be the mouthpiece of God. Those same men preach at you to abstain from strong drink, sex, and everything that is good in the world while partaking in those same joys themselves.”

“I'm fairly certain you just called us stupid.”

Samuel's silence was his response.

“My point, Steovan, is that we are men and women of science and fact. Stones do not sing. Nor do they proclaim the high kings of Eire.”

“Skip to the meat of this conversation. Brock will be by soon to piss on me again.”

“I see confinement hasn't dimmed your sense of humor. Very well. When the Stone of Destiny fails to sing for you, Pierce will take by force what he desires. Who do you think will be on the front lines of his armies? Those who are loyal to him or those who have been paid to be here?”

“He'll use your people as fodder to soften the enemy armies.”

“Praises be, he is not as ignorant as he looks.”

“That isn't nice, Samuel.”

“I am a successful trader. I am a fierce warrior. I am a father, a husband, and a scholar. The one thing I am not is nice.”

“Liar.”

“The Oyoko Clan does not break contracts. Play the game, and you will have our backing. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

The shadow protecting him from the sun disappeared, and he squinted against the returned light. Trouble was he didn't know how to play the game. He'd never been anything but a whore, a brightly colored peacock who couldn't even stop Bucky from being ripped from him.

But maybe there was something to that.

So when, after two weeks, Brock opened the grate and hauled him into the world again, he stood like a broken man, with slumped shoulders, wobbly knees, and an expression of misery. They allowed him to wash, not because they were concerned with his comfort but because he couldn't be presented to Pierce in such a state.

And it was a relief. Being clean was a relief. Walking into the shade of the big house and away from the harsh sun that left him pink and blistered, was a relief.

Dropping to his knees before Pierce was not; it was a necessary evil.

“Do you have something to say to me?” asked Pierce.

Pledging his loyalty to Pierce wasn't enough. It would seem too out of character, so rather than kissing the rings on Pierce's hand, he said, “I have something you want. You have something I want.”

Pierce motioned with his fingers to continue.

“You want Eire. I want to go home.”

“You are home,” responded Pierce.

“No, this is the place I was born. Constantinople is my home. I will help you in whatever ways I can, but when it's over, you will send me home. Alive. And in one piece.”

*

Bucky crouched low behind the rise of a hillock and looked down into the valley where a column of horses marched in orderly lines. To the rear, wagons carried all the goods required for armed combat. Alexander Pierce was going to war against the whole of Eire.

Pierce rode in the middle surrounded by his inner circle. They were garbed more finely than the foot soldiers, wearing long léines. Leather greaves covered their shins. Corsets made of hardened leather covered their upper bodies. Each man wore a helmet made also of leather with bars of iron reinforcing the battle caps. Brightly colored horsehair streaked down the center from front to back.

All except one. Steve rode next to Pierce but lacked the helmet. He looked hale. They'd clearly been feeding him. He also looked calm. From the distance, Bucky couldn't make out much detail, but it was enough to ease some of the terror gripping his heart.

“Word has it they took him to the Hill of Tara,” Fandral said in Norse. “There was a confrontation between Pierce's people and Flann Sinna, who is the current High King.”

Hogun said something in his native tongue before switching to Norse, “They call it the Stone of Destiny. It proclaims the kings of Eire. When it didn't sing for Steovan, there was a battle. Flann Sinna's armies were victorious and drove Pierce into retreat.”

“And now he's on a campaign to take the country by force,” Bucky surmised.

“Can he do it?” asked Sifrir.

Brunnhilde laughed. “Arrogant men have farther to fall, but they will topple eventually. Look at his troops. Africans. Celts. Danes. He's contracted mercenaries.”

“Like a quilt,” Bucky said. “Sever the stitches, and take apart the quilt one square at a time.”

They retreated from the hillock. Attacking such a large force with so few numbers was suicide. Not even with Thorir's backing and the support of every single one of his oarsmen. They were a family. It was still a concept Bucky wrestled with, but if they were family, then it meant Steve was also part of it. They would go to the ends of the world for each other.

Natalia broke away from playing a game with Loki when they returned to their camp. She sat beside him to start braiding her fiery hair but didn't speak. Rather, she tucked herself close and hummed a tune he didn't recognize.

He didn't realize at first that it was her way of offering comfort. When he did, he looped an arm around her shoulders to pull her close, and that was when it really sank into his skin. Family. It didn't make him weak like Arkady claimed. It made him strong, gave him something to fight for.

“There is a song my mother used to sing to me.” He cleared his throat and sang in a rich baritone, most of them wouldn't understand the lyrics. It was performed in his mother's tongue, the language of the Rus, but it spoke of a bird battered by a storm finally finding a safe perch to shelter from the winds.

By the time he was finished, he looked up to find most of the camp gathered around. Natalia beamed at him. She rose. Valgrim retrieved one of his drums and beat a thrumming rhythm to which she danced, her lithe body twirling and leaping effortlessly. Others joined in with song.

Across the way, he watched Volstagg pull Dagr close. They turned to each other and kissed, and Bucky's world tilted on its axis. Both were-- They were-- And not a single member of the crew made one of them to feel lesser for receiving the other's cock?


	25. And My Eyes Still Grow Damp To Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander's war to take over the whole of Eire begins.

Tears wet Steovan's cheeks. He sat atop a horse on Alexander's right and looked down the hillock onto the field of combat where Pierce's forces, a mixture of Celts, Northmen, and Africans, continued the slaughter. Not even the distance dimmed the din of combat. Metal shrieked against metal. Men and women screamed their dying breaths. Horses panicked with nostrils flared and ears flattened to skulls.

The locals stood no chance. Enemy forces fighting under the combined banners of Pierce and Rogers rolled over them like an incoming tide, soaking the ground with their blood.

Dark shadows dotted the battlefield, and he imagined they were Bucky's winged Valkyrie coming to take away the souls of the departed. But it wasn't so. They were scavenger birds waiting to pick clean the bones of the fallen just like the two-legged scavengers awaited their chance to strip corpses of any finery or usable armor and weapons.

This evil was done in his name. 

“Wipe your tears, boy,” Pierce snapped. “This is conquest.”

Steve did as instructed. His one comfort was seeing Samuel and Ayo finishing off the last of their opponents. The pair grasped each other's neck and leaned close to press foreheads together. They had survived another battle.

He wasn't so certain he would, at least not the part that made him Steovan Rogers, not the part that made him Saraid's son. His grip on her shield tightened. For her sake, he had to stand firm.

“So a powerful man can grow more powerful,” he responded.

“It is the nature of the world. The powerful rule the weak. The weak serve the powerful.”

“This isn't service; it's slaughter.”

He thought of Bucky and the hardness that had been fostered in him, a hardness he'd seen slowly flake away to reveal something softer and more beautiful beneath. Hard men lived longer in such a violent world, Brock claimed. Soft men died terrible deaths. But wasn't that the case only because powerful men desired more than their share and took it at the expense of the weak? That was not honor.

The gnawing nausea remained after Alexander deemed it safe to leave his men to finish up under Rollins' leadership while they returned to base camp. He wasn't housed in Pierce's tent, the largest structure situated at the center of camp. No, he was kept in something more defensible: a small pavilion hidden away from prying eyes where Brock chained him to a pole planted into the ground.

Alexander wasn't taking any chances that Steve might escape in the chaos of camp.

That was where he remained, chained to a pole with no windows to look out in order to see the sky. _Fly away_ , he said to himself. _You're a bird who can fly away from the world. Fly away, bird. Fly away._ His wings beat against canvas but could find no means of escape.

Exhausted, Steve sank to ground, wrapped his arms around his knees, and rocked himself. Everything blured. He ignored Brock, who nudged him with the toe of his shoe before plopping a bowl of food nearby. Even the thought of food made his stomach rebel. All he could picture were the broken and bloodied corpses stretched across a once-green field.

Samuel came to sit with him, and that was easier. Samuel didn't expect anything in return. He brought his stool, the one whose based was carved to look like an elephant, and combed his young daughter's hair. The pair sat in silence, but their presence was soothing.

Eventually, he lifted his head. “Teach me to fight. When the time comes, I want to know how to use this shield and become my mother's legacy.”

Samuel smiled his gap-toothed smile. “There is my friend.”

*

Shadows moved in the darkness of a sleeping camp. Red trailed in their wake, Bucky's knife coated with the life's blood of a sentry as he and numerous others slipped into Pierce's war camp.

They'd been watching the camp's movements for weeks and knew about the pavilion. It had a wooden floor and wooden walls, a solid door, and a locking mechanism they hadn't gotten close enough to see in detail. Then there were the guards. Pierce had stationed three of them in and around Steve's cell.

So they moved silently and in two groups: one to free Steovan, the other to cause a distraction at the opposite side of camp to draw the enemy forces away.

Natalia moved ahead of him, lithe body coiled for movement. She leaped onto the guard's back. Metal flashed in moonlight as her vicious little blade severed vocal cords, flesh, and sinew. Body and killer crumpled silently to the ground.

Lokir took out the second by piercing the back of the guard's skull in one explosive movement. The guard was dead before he even had a chance to cry out a warning.

Bucky took down the remaining guard. He wasn't young and showy anymore and didn't need theatrics to make a clean kill. Once the guard was dispatched, he moved to the pavilion where the only thing standing between him and the man he loved was a complicated rope lock made of numerous knots and loops. The fibers were covered in waxy resin that made cutting through the lock a time-consuming affair, and figuring out the precise manner of unwinding the various knots seemed worse.

He used hand signals to direct Natalia and Lokir to stand watch. Eventually, new guards would arrive to replace those who'd been killed. If they weren't done and already moving toward the woods by that point, their rescue mission would turn deadly.

Sweat beaded his brow and rolled into his eyes where it stung. He blinked it away. Each new drop of dew was another moment that ticked past. His fingers felt big and clumsy. They were the fingers of a fighter and not prone to cleverness.

But Lokir's fingers...

He pulled Lokir and his nimble fingers off guard duty and set him to work while Bucky took up the youth's position. Drops of dew still gathered on blades of grass. Seconds still ticked by. Each beat of his heart thundered like a charging horse, but a silent hiss and a quick tug on his sleeve let him know when Lokir completed the task.

Well-oiled hinges didn't creak in the silence.

Bucky slipped inside to find Steve lying curled in a fetal position, and his heart dropped. The outer lock had been rope. Another lock connected Steve's ankle to a weight of chain attached to a stout pole. He was not cutting off his lover's foot. There had to be another way.

He crouched and rested a hand on Steve's shoulder, Steve, who looked far thinner than when Bucky had last seen him and whose eyes were framed by shadows.

Steve jerked. Both hands flew up in a defensive position in front of his face, and he breathed out a quick “Brock, please” before the shadows of sleep melted away and recognition brightened his eyes.

“Bucky?”

He cupped Steve's cheek with a gloved palm. “What have they done to you.”

“You can't be here,” Steve breathed.

“I'm not leaving without you. Can you tell me who has the key?” He swept a hand to indicate the lock. 

“Brock. He carries it on a leather cord around his neck. Bucky, they'll kill you. Please. Just go.”

When he next spoke, his voice was full of steel. “I am not leaving you here. You're my heart.”

Saying it made him feel like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had a heart despite all the terrible things he'd done in Arkady's name. He had a heart, and it belonged to Steve, gentle, kind Steve. 

“Do you know where Brock stays?”

“You just--” Steve looked up at him with liquid blue eyes, his expression unreadable.

There wasn't time to really enjoy the solidifying of their hearts, so he prompted again, “Do you know where Brock stays at night?”

“With Pierce,” Steve said, a note of hopelessness in his voice. “He stays in Pierce's tent surrounded by a number of guards. There's no way.”

“I found Thorir and the others. They're safe. They're here to help me rescue you. You're family. They won't leave family behind.”

“They're safe?”

“Each and every one. Except Olaf. They got rid of him as soon as they made port in Dublin.”

Steve's laughter sounded wet.

Either Natalia or Lokir knocked on the wooden wall and called a warning.

“There's still time. I'll slip into Pierce's tent and get the key and come back for you.”

But Steve grasped his forearm. “Just go. Bucky, they'll kill you, and I can't live knowing you died trying to save me. Please. Don't make me mourn your death on top of everything else.”

Another knock sounded, this one more urgent and accompanied by the distant sound of the others engaging in combat with the enemy on the west side of camp. Thorir was grossly outnumbered.

“I can't--” he started but couldn't finish the statement.

Steve sat up and pulled him close. They filled each other's arms like they were made to rest there. Their lips met, gentle and unhurried. Desperation tightened Bucky's arms. His fingers threaded into his lover's long, golden locks, and he cupped Steve's head.

It was over before either could really enjoy it.

Steve pushed him away, the chain preventing their reunion rattling. “Go before they catch you.”

“I can't leave you,” he finally got out.

“You have to.”

Natalia stuck her head inside and started to speak. Words died on her lips. Her expression turned grim upon seeing the hated metal preventing their quick escape.

“Guards are coming, Da.”

“Keep him safe for me,” Steve said to her.

He was being pulled in two different directions. Natalia clasped the collar of his armor and tugged one direction while his love for Steve pulled him in the opposite.

Outside, an approaching guard shouted a warning. He'd discovered one of the bodies.

Finally, Bucky allowed himself to be tugged away, his hand skating down Steve's forearm and across his outstretched hand where their fingertips lingered for less-than-a-breath. Then he was gone, being pulled back into the shadows by Natalia and Loki as the enemy camp came alive.


	26. His Majesty Signed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samuel gives Steve a new nickname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience while I sorted some things out in my personal life. I'm so happy to be coming back to this. Also, I can proudly say I have the first draft completely written now, so future installments should come regularly and without anymore long breaks.

Buck hurled his helmet across his tent with a snarl. He couldn't stop thinking of Steve the way he'd last seen him, too thin, pale, eyes dark and hopeless, hair lanky and dull. No one who shined as bright as Steve should look so terribly lost.

A scream bubbled in the back of his throat. He tried swallowing it down. Steve was in pain. Steve was being used and hurt. Steve was Bucky's, and Bucky was Steve's. They belonged together but had been torn apart, and it felt like something fundamental had gone wrong with the world.

Most importantly, he'd failed Steve.

The scream erupted. Unable to contain the pressure of grief and failure, he overturned a small table. Items scattered across the tent floor. It wasn't enough. So he threw the chest containing his worldly wealth: coins, gold jewelry, precious gemstones, the armor he'd been gifted by the king of the Danelaw. He was reaching something else to throw when strong arms closed around him from behind.

Of course he struggled. He heaved his body in an effort to break free, but it was no use. Thorir, whose deep voice sounded supremely gentle, had arms made of Damascus steel. They held firm no matter how hard he wrestled against their grip. Finally, he collapsed, his knees giving way so that he sagged into Thorir's embrace.

“We will free him,” Thorir said in an attempt to console.

It didn't matter.

“I failed him,” Bucky responded. “The one time he really needed me, and I failed him.” His voice was weak, choked with emotions he refused to release. “First I tore him from the only home he'd ever known. Then I allowed him to be captured by his enemy. Now this.”

Tightness in his chest threatened to suffocate him. His chest felt like it would collapse into a crater the size of which only Steve would fill. But Steve wasn't there to fill it, and only emptiness remained. His heart was a gaping hole. And he couldn't breathe. And he couldn't feel his heart beating.

“Let it out,” Thorir instructed.

“I can't.”

“You can. Just breathe and let go.”

“Arkady said--”

“Arkady is a heartless brute. I suggest you do the opposite of everything he instructed you to do.” Thorir's arms tightened, making him feel sheltered, comforted, safe.

No matter the strength of his body or his will, the tears came. Fat droplets dripped down his face and over his chin. They were silent at first, his throat locked tight around any noises that may have accompanied them. But Thorir's arms were strong, and for once, he couldn't suffer the grief in silence no matter what Arkady had told him.

A sob escaped, wrenching and painful, a rusted hinge squealing into movement. Once the first broke free, more followed. They came easier, and soon, he couldn't withhold the pitiful evidence of his grief. He cried. His throat became sore. His chest ached.

Steve had been right there, just beyond his reach.

Thorir murmured into his ear, “That's it. There's poison in you. Let it out. Let it bleed away all the festering hurt that's weighed you down for so many years. You'll feel clean again. Stronger.”

Eventually, the tears eased. An empty sort of feeling remained, throbbing behind his chest wall, but he didn't feel as though he were about to burst. There wasn't a drenching weight of ichor sickening his innards anymore.

He took a deep, clean breath. Only then did Thorir release him, gently so as to ensure Bucky could find his own footing.

“How can you be so...” He couldn't find the words to finish his statement.

“Handsome? Brave? Heroic?”

Laughing hurt with the snot clogging his nose. He wiped his face. “That and many other things. You're a leader, but you don't lead with the strength of your arm but with the warmth of your character. I did not expect to join your ship and find a family.”

“Some people have sensitive hearts, people like Steovan. Some people have hearts encased in ice. Others keep their hearts locked behind iron walls. Be who you are. Whoever that might be. Feel what you feel. Don't be afraid to let those feelings show.

“Arkady trained killers to make his holds fat with riches he didn't evenly distribute. Do you know why he never splits the bounty outside of Norway? Because he's afraid if he pays his crew ahead of time, they will abandon him.

“That isn't a leader. It's a selfish man getting rich on the backs of people he's twisted like a tree branch. We are a family. Together we are strong. Never be afraid of asking for help or feeding the sensitive parts of you. They are why Steovan is yours.”

Bucky wiped his face again and stood up straighter. He breathed deep and finally looked Thorir in the eyes. “Will you help me?”

“Always,” Thorir responded with bright light behind his too-luminous eyes and a cheery smile.

*

“Keep your body in front of you. Do not swing wide like a flailing stork too stupid for its own legs,” shouted Samuel.

Ayo, their daughter cradled in her lap, laughed and said something in their native tongue to which Samuel responded with a hearty laugh.

“Talking about me in languages I can't understand while I'm standing right in front of you is rude and unfair,” Steve responded as he caught his breath. The day was cool and rainy. Mist clung to their surroundings, the buildings with their sod walls and thatched roofs.

Most things in his life were rude and unfair these days. The memory of Bucky's lips lingered against his own. Their kiss had tasted of desperation, of hopelessness and helplessness, but Steve hadn't swallowed the poison of the moment. Rather, he had used it to fuel his determination.

“My beloved merely remarks about your lumbering legs. She cannot decide if you are an oxen to plow fields or a newborn giraffe not yet grown into your legs.”

“Stop teasing me and teach me before I whack you on the nose.”

Samuel twisted his curved sword. The blade widened near the tip and ended in a wicked hook. It was a sword, Ayo had explained, meant for hacking and mauling rather than thrusting.

“You want me to teach you? Then pay attention.”

There was no warning. Samuel moved like a viper. Steve parried the first strike and barely blocked the second, but the third caught him behind the knee and sent him into the mud, hands reaching to brace himself and therefore losing his weapon.

“How will you fight if you drop your sword, baby bird?”

Eako, youngest daughter of Ayo and Samuel, laughed and asked, “Why am I Little Bird and Steve is Baby Bird? Steve is big. I am little.”

“Steve is like a baby bird, my heart,” Ayo said. “He does not know how to live in this world yet. You do. You know how to fetch water. And you know how to weave. And you know how to start a fire and turn the coals. Steve has not learned these things yet.”

Shame clawed its way up his throat, but Samuel reached to help him up and slapped him on the back.

“It's not your fault. Everyone is born into different lives and then reborn into new places. Come. We'll try again. This time, don't over-extend your reach. Keep your sword close to protect your middle.”

“You have an unfair advantage,” Steve pouted. “That curved sword of yours is front heavy and lets your swing gain more power and momentum.”

“Beloved? The staff.”

Without further request, she sent Eako to retrieve a long, wooden pole for her father. It was five or six feet and polished to a high sheen. The darkness of the wood appeared fire-hardened.

“Sam, this isn't amusing. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Quit flapping your lips and take position.”

Steve did, and as soon as he settled himself, Samuel sprang into motion. The weapon was a cyclone. It was a snake. It wove around his defenses with a liquid movement that left him panicked and dizzy. He couldn't keep up. Didn't know where the next blow would land. Couldn't concentrate. Overwhelmed, he danced back, giving ground until his back came up against the wall of a building.

Samuel lashed out.

Steve shouted, a sharp sound, when the staff thwacked his kneecap, throwing him to the dirt again. A litany of Latin curses spilled from his mouth as he cradled his throbbing knee.

Moments passed. He became aware of laughter. Not Samuel's laughter. Samuel would never laugh at him for his failures. No, the sound was gruff and sent globules of sickness curdling low in his belly.

Rumlow called, “My thanks, African, for putting the little prince where he deserves.” The men following in Rumlow's wake laughed along with him.

Their attention was stolen from tormenting Steve by the arrival of a group of men and women. They rode the hardy, tan horses Bucky spoke of wistfully, the kind who came from the cold climate of Norway. Each horse's mane had been cut so that it stood up in white and black bristles.

The man on the lead horse dismounted and passed a packet of parchment paper to Rumlow. The pair then disappeared inside Pierce's house together.

“Steovan?”

Hearing his name prompted him to look up and spy the hand Samuel offered. He accepted the hand up and stooped to retrieve his dropped blade. His ego was surprisingly intact. After all, he'd spent most of his life in a brothel using his body to pay for his sustenance. Learning to fight wouldn't happen in a day or even a week, but it would happen.

“The skill is less in the weapon, you must understand, than in the hand that wields it. Shall we end today's lesson and sup together?”

Steve shook his shaggy head, grown long enough to pull half of it up into a tie at the back of his head. “I want to try again.”

He went to the dirt time after time. Each moment wasn't a bruise to his ego but another lesson to cherish, another step toward defeating Pierce and taking back what rightfully belonged to him. It didn't matter that he was covered in bruises at the end of the day. It didn't matter that seeing the African beat Steve into the dirt amused Pierce and Rumlow because he was learning. He was getting better, and one day, Samuel's baby bird would learn how to fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tidbit: According to my research, the name "Africa" came into use in during the Roman Empire and was used in reference to Northern Africa. The older name "Alkebulan," meaning mother of mankind, was used prior and was an indigenous word for the continent.


	27. With His Own Rubber Stamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is frustrated.

Normally, Thorir wasn't a good leader because he was a brilliant strategist but because he surrounded himself with brilliant strategists. He listened to the people whose ideas held the most merit in any given situation, but it was still a shock to Bucky when, rather than drumming up support from Thorir's contacts in Dublin or going on the offensive against Pierce, they embarked on a campaign to raid caravans carrying supplies into Baile.

Raiding caravans did nothing to satisfy the frustration mounting in him every day Steve was in captivity. Yes, it made them fat on the riches of other men. They were well-fed and swollen with drink, sometimes to the point that their travel was considerably slowed.

After another successful raid, they all sat around smoking campfires, and he could admit he'd spent too much time drinking. Enough so he was unsteady on his fit. He flopped down beside Sifrir and Brunnhilde to take his portion of the meat roasting over the open fire.

Dagr was in the midst of a story wherein Thorir's father had forbidden him from advancing on a clan growing strong in the harsh northernmost climes of Norway where day become night and night became day and the summers were barely longer than one of Volstagg's snores. The younger Thorir disliked the notion of allowing a slight caused by the clan's jarl to go unanswered. Instead of obeying his father, he gathered together, along with Lokir who was the apple of his mother's eye, Sifirir and the Warriors Three: Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun.

"They sneaked into the territory of the northern clan and set fire to their grain stores but weren't able to escape without being seen. With so few at his back, Thorir's group had quickly been overrun."

There, Dagr's voice dropped dramatically. “Swords laid upon their throats. The enemy was to slaughter them for their daring. Burning grain stores could destroy the entire clan during a harsh winter, and such boldness could not go unanswered.

“Then came a flash of light and a clap of thunder. Up the hill rode their jarl, who happens to be Thorir and Lokir's father, upon a frothing beast whose nostrils flared and whose hooves could break ice.

“He said, 'These are the actions of a boy. Treat them as such.'”

Dagr's voice dipped low into a growl. He continued, “The enemy jarl snarled, 'Your boy nigh guaranteed the death of my people during this long winter. We demand retribution. His life for the lives we will lose to starvation.'

“But Thorir's father was not prepared to give up the life of his eldest, his heir, and so began a battle of wits as both jarls negotiated the price of Thorir's life. 'Go into the hills and bring me the skin of a white bear,' the jarl commanded. And so Thorir did. 'Sail into the wild seas of the north and bring to me a monster of the deep.' And so Thorir did. 'Give to me what you hold most dear.'

“This, Thorir thought on long and hard, for he held few things dearer than his lust for battle. He could not give to the jarl his brother, Lokir. He could not strip from his bones and blood his love for warfare.

“On the sixth day, he presented himself before the jarl and went to his knees, bowing his head. 'You ask me to give you that which I hold most dear,'” Dagr said with a deep, resonant voice. “'I give to you this, my pride, for I have knelt for no man before but my own father.' The jarl thought long about the gift, and after the turning of one cycle of the moon, he released Thorir from his service, saying that Thorir had learned valuable wisdom and would not provoke war again without just cause.”

People cheered a good story well-told, everyone but Bucky. He tossed the remnants of his cup of mead into the fire where it hissed and popped before climbing to his feet. “What are we doing here?” he demanded, voice heavy with drink. "I asked for your help, but you choose to go a-Viking instead of concentrating our efforts on Pierce.”

The man who was Thorir's shadow, Heimdall, stepped between them, using the bulk of his massive body to prevent Bucky from doing anything rash.

“There's no need for raised hackles,” Thorir said as he urged Heimdall to sit. “Hogun. Speak.”

“Men with pale faces came to my homeland to take our land and make slaves of us. We retreated north beyond their reach. It wasn't enough. We attacked supplies to keep the pale men from being fed. Keep Pierce's army from being fed properly. Watch an army's morale wane without their beer and mead.”

“At least until my brother returns from his errand,” finished Thorir.

The mention of Lokir brought to light Natalia's absence at the campfire. He felt sick with the knowledge he hadn't noticed her missing before. He'd been too deep in his own despair, too blinded by grief to realize she wasn't nearby.

Dread sinking into his skin, he asked, “Where are they? Where have you sent them? Did anyone accompany them for protection? Why didn't you ask me before sending her off on this errand?”

“Natalia is of her own mind,” Sifrir reminded him.

“She's mine,” he shouted, unable to find the stoic facade he'd once worn with complete confidence. He couldn't find Winter's Soldier to hide inside and felt like a churning mass wriggled inside his aching chest. They were worms, dark and poisonous driving him toward the brink.

“She's a woman now,” insisted Brunnhilde, a tall horn of mead in hand. “Became a woman some months ago when you were too busy sniffing Steovan's ass end to pay attention to her distress. She's capable of bearing children now should she so choose.”

A distant memory surfaced of an old friend. Grethe was long gone to Valhalla, but he remembered the way the men of Arkady's boat had avoided the women when their trousers became stained dark with blood between their thighs and their benches turned dark and rust-red over the years.

Natalia had become a woman. He could hardly believe the passage of years since the moment he'd found her, could hardly believe the woman she'd grown into.

Then, the argument became something else entirely.

“If your brother gives my daughter a child, I will make a eunuch of him.” He stumbled to his feet.

Thorir took exception and exclaimed, “Your daughter could do worse than my brother.”

“It was but a year ago when you allowed your friends to taunt him unmercifully for fighting with daggers instead of a sword, a man's weapon. How your song has changed since then.”

“You speak such foul things!”

“Ask anyone,” he swept his hands around the gathered crowd. “If you valued him so, you would have stopped the tormenting he's received, but you care about battle and coin--”

Bucky didn't get in another word before Thorir's weight plowed into him, taking him to the ground. The fight was fast and brutal. Bucky's fist caught Thorir across the mouth, sending blood splattering in the dirt. Thorir kicked Bucky in the kidneys, making him gasp and stumble as he clutched his back.

No one bothered to break them up. On the contrary, he was aware of people placing bets. What he became certain of in a matter of moments was that those thick arms that had held him so gently last month were capable of delivering breath-stealing punches.

Both were evenly matched. What Thorir had in strength, Bucky made up for with cunning and speed. He slithered like a slippery eel from another bear hold, spun, and jabbed Thorir in his lower spine hard enough to make him stumble forward. Bucky used the advantage to take Thorir to the ground where he locked his head between his thighs. At the same time, Thorir dug fingers into the muscle of Bucky's calf. Fire shot up his leg and made him convulse.

A shock of cold water drowned them, and they froze mid-motion.

Bucky looked up to find Heimdall standing over them with an empty bucket. He did not look amused.

The interruption of the fight caused groans from the baying audience whose bets were nullified by the premature ending of the fight.

“Brawling is unbecoming of your father's name,” Heimdall said.

Bucky sat up, shoving handfuls of wet hair out of his face and asked, “Who is your father that his reach is long enough to scold you here, in the middle of Eire?”

“No one terribly important, a minor noble in the court of King Harold Halfdansson of Norway.”

Something thickened the atmosphere, some truth that couldn't be spoken but hanged, static, amongst them. Several people knew the secret judging by their expressions. Others were oblivious. But the matter wasn't important enough to dredge up from the deep.

“If my brother gives your daughter a child, I will ensure he does the honorable thing. She and the babe will want for nothing. You have my word, friend.”

He wanted to argue that it wasn't about providing for Natalia and any child she might carry. He could do that himself. It was about the responsibilities she would have to shoulder. It was about how her choices would be limited if she had a child.

He said none of that, choosing instead to exclaim, “You punch like a battering ram.”

“You kick like a horse,” retorted Thorir with a hand massaging his sore spine.

All seemed forgiven and forgotten, two friends who'd gotten into a minor spat that could be blamed on too many intoxicants and too long living in close quarters under the strain of Steve's absence.

A few hours later, there was a commotion at the edge of camp. Sentries appeared from between the trees flanking Lokir and Natalia. Both were filthy but appeared hale as they approached. Their expressions were sour, though, and Natalia tripped Lokir up and sprinted the remaining distance.

“We agreed!” Lokir shouted after her. “No tricks.”

“I only tricked you before you had the chance to trick me,” she called back. 

“Brat,” he shouted.

“Tricky-Tricky.” It appeared to be an inside joke.

Thorir burst into gales of laughter and called, “I believe my brother has met his match in the fair and furious Lady Natalia. Forget my earlier comments. I wish for them to join in marriage.”

Bucky kicked at him for such blasphemy.

The bundle of parchments Natalia thrust into Thorir's hands was crumbled and stained and all rolled into a thick scroll. He unrolled the documents.

Bucky read them aloud over Thorir's shoulder. “Pierce is recruiting more forces from the northern countries. He's employed Arkady to transport letters to numerous jarls all across Scandinavia promising lands and wealth in exchange for their alliance in winning the island.”

“He makes regular trips between Baile and his contacts in Dublin,” Lokir informed them. “He'll be returning to Pierce for more letters once he notices these are missing.”

Bucky's expression tightened, becoming grim and determined. He exchanged a glance with Thorir. “Cut off their supplies.”

“Prepare for battle,” Thorir ordered. His hand settled on Lokir's shoulder, who straightened under his brother's sudden affection. “Well done, Lokir. Natalia. War isn't won by brute strength alone.”


	28. It was Dark All Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky faces his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic depictions of violence and minor character deaths.

Bucky emerged from the trees with a shout on his lips and his sword soaked in blood. His old oar-mates from Arkady's boat pulled together into a defensive formation, placing themselves between Arkady and the death he so very much deserved.

They weren't afraid. After all, the odds were in their favor given that Arkady's small force was buffered by men loyal to Pierce. They had nothing to fear.

But Bucky had eyes only for Arkady, who had taken a sensitive boy and turned him into a machine, into a killer, into a cold and self-centered man who had nearly ruined Steovan. He clashed first with Cato the Dane. Their swords shrieked. The impact reverberated up Bucky's arm. He twisted his blade and slid under Cato's defenses. And a man he'd once admired never saw it coming. The kill was quick and clean out of respect for their previous friendship.

Someone screamed “Stop him” above the cacophony of combat, and Bucky found himself attacked on all fronts. Mere feet separated him from Arkady.

Arkady turned, not because he was confident enough to turn his back on Winter's Soldier, no. Fear twisted his expression. The monster he'd made had come back for him, and he fled for his life.

“Coward,” Bucky spat.

Twisting in an effort to slip through a small opening brought him up against Grimvolde's broad chest. Grimvolde struck hard enough several lamellae on Bucky's beloved armor cracked. A knife slipped into the weak spot and came away wet with blood. The wound, he hardly felt in his desperation to break through their line.

“Bjarnson, you were one of us,” Grimvolde said.

“I was never one of you,” he snarled. “You made me despise who I am.”

“We made you a man.”

“You made me a monster.”

His blade hissed down the length of Grimvolde's, and he heaved with all his might to throw the combatant's blade high. There wasn't time for a killing blow. Grimvolde, despite his size, swung his bulk in the opposite direction, causing Bucky to overbalance.

Then came a battle cry as Brunnhilde threw her weight into Grimvolde, knocking him to the side, and buying Bucky the precious time he needed to disengage from combat. Others followed after her: Sifrir and Volstagg. Fandral. Heimdall and Valgrim. Hogun and Thorir.

Because he wasn't alone anymore. He didn't need to do this alone.

He slipped through an opening and darted after Arkady's retreating form. If he made it to the horses, catching him would be nigh impossible, and he was nearly there. Bucky gritted his teeth. Arkady reached for a set of reins and pulled a horse around. He planted a foot in the stirrup.

Lokir and Natalia, determined people that they were, emerged from the treeline and rushed his horse. The beast reared. Arkady was thrown to the ground. Clever hands and sharp knives cut ropes that secured the horses, and once the spooked animals were free, they scattered.

Lokir and Natalia's quick thinking, however, left them in the direct path of Arkady's fury once he regained his feet. Both attacked at once, moving like wolves who knew the art of the hunt through long years of practice and instinct. Where Lokir was, Natalia was quick to duck beneath him through the opening he created.

They fought hard and fast but lacked the experience to overcome a man like Arkady, who was brutal and used every dirty trick ever conjured. Lokir went down first. He collapsed from a hard blow that yanked a howl from his lungs. Natalia leaped over his body and onto Arkady with a furious bellow.

Bucky swallowed his fear. Fear wouldn't save her. He charged, nostrils flared, heart drumming as a boar's hooves charging toward danger. Her yelp resonated in his ears and sent him careening the last several paces. The collision left him seeing stars, but it was enough to send Arkady to the dirt.

He rolled to his feet seconds before his enemy, sword at the ready. Trouble was, seeing Natalia bleeding into the soil distracted him. He barely intercepted the blow aimed at his head.

“I had such high hopes for you,” Arkady said. “You are such a disappointment.”

Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he ignored the sting. He tossed his head to send hair flying out of his face. “Seems to me you're the disappointment. Selling yourself to the Danelaw. Selling yourself to Pierce. Selling yourself to the Christians. And for what? Money? Influence? Power? I suppose that's important to some men. Makes for a cold grave, though.”

While speaking, he angled himself until he stood between Arkady and the young ones.

“And you? You could have had kings on their knees before you,” Arkady responded, eyes sharp.

“Can you move, Natalia?” he asked.

She replied in the affirmative.

“Get Lokir out of here.”

“What about you?”

Arkady didn't give them more time to argue. He attacked with a vicious swing that rattled Bucky's bones, but instead of going on the offensive against Bucky directly, he feinted toward the side and struck out against Natalia, who had only just regained her feet.

Infuriated, Bucky shifted position and intercepted the next strike with his own weapon. They clashed and locked, bodies pushing against each other as they each sought to propel the other backward.

Arkady gave ground first. He stepped backward to disengage only to strike out against Natalia again, forcing Bucky to once again adjust his position and remain on the defensive. Dirty tricks were Arkady's forte, and he had no compunctions against fighting children in order to wear Bucky down.

“Get out of here,” commanded Bucky.

The tone of voice finally achieved the desired result. Natalia gathered Lokir, who was finally coming around, up to his feet and retreated back into the treeline. He was relieved enough to forget the weakness of his left side.

He moved into a brutal series of attacks, using his greater weight to force Arkady into retreating, but something gave away his weakness. Some misstep. Some awkward turn of his arm. Whatever the reason, Arkady concentrated blow after blow on Bucky's left side, weakening him further.

Then there was no more room left to give ground. His back came up against a tree. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to turn. Arkady's body language turned confident, cocky. Certain of his victory. He lunged for the killing blow.

Steel penetrated a soft belly protected by leather and cloth. Arkady's eyes widened. He glanced down to find a knife buried in his guts. Bucky gripped Arkady's wrist, the one holding his weapon, to angle the point of the blade above Bucky's head.

Arkady blinked. A lack of comprehension colored his face as he glanced between the knife in his guts and Bucky. He stumbled a few steps backward before falling on his ass. That was the thing about gut wounds. A man could live for days before succumbing to fever and infection.

Breath erratic and holding his injured side, Bucky pushed away from the tree trunk.

“Don't leave me like this,” said Arkady.

Bucky turned to leave.

“You owe me a warrior's death. Let me die with a sword in my hand. Let me go to Valhalla.”

He crouched and placed his bloody hand on Arkady's cheek, smearing ghastly crimson.

Hope sparked behind Arkady's eyes.

“You're a Christian, remember? You should be praying to your god for absolution, not begging for Valhalla.”

He clamped his hand over Arkady's mouth and nose. Arkady struggled. He clawed at Bucky's hand as his body fought to draw breath, but his struggles were in vain. Eventually, he stopped kicking. Death throes convulsed through his body. Light left his eyes. They fixed. Pupils dilated.

Something hollow remained in the wake of Arkady's death. He didn't feel the satisfaction he imagined would be there. All he felt was emptiness. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sickened. He wasn't anything. Killing Arkady was just a thing that had needed doing.

He realized it was because he'd already been freed from his former mentor's clutches. Steve had helped him. Natalia had helped him. Thorir, Sirfir, Brunnhilde. They had all helped him. His family.

Worry for Natalia and Lokir drove him to his feet. The clamor of conflict was distant and dying down as he approached the main field of action. He caught sight of Brunnhilde walking amongst the fallen bodies as was her habit. Some, she crouched to touch their forehead. Others, she passed by.

A few yards away, a triage allowed Olga, who was well-versed in herbs and wound care, to treat those injured in the conflict. Natalia was there, holding a wad of cloth against her pelvis that slowly became saturated with blood.

He arrived in time to hold her hand as Olga made her drink a few spoonfuls of milk from the poppy flower before lying her out on a cot. Natalia's lids grew heavy. Only after she drifted off did Olga seal the wound with fire. Bucky gagged. The scent of burning flesh was bad enough. Knowing it was Natalia's flesh being burned made it worse.

Lokir came closer once the wound had been dressed to plop down on the ground beside her. He cradled his arm which bore a heavy splint from a break. Bucky had been wrong about him. Lokir was flighty, but when he cared, his flightiness firmed into steel.

“She'll be okay, right?” asked Lokir.

“She's survived worse than this,” he responded. Bucky laid a hand on Lokir's shoulder. “We'll take care of her together.”

A head of black hair bobbed. Lokir scooted closer in order to rest his good hand on Natalia's arm.

Dragging a camp stool over, Bucky sat heavily to watch over them both. People still trickled in from the combat zone. It sounded like the battle was over finally, so he didn't feel pressured to rejoin the fight. Rather, he allowed himself these moments to be with people he cared about.

*

Something startled Bucky awake while the sun was still in the sky.

Natalia hadn't woken. She still breathed. Lokir continued keeping his vigil.

He didn't realize what had woken him until a firm hand squeezed his shoulder, at which point, he looked up to find Sifrir at his side.

“You're wounded and need treatment.”

He didn't respond at first.

“Bucky,” she prompted.

“They were so brave.” He inclined his chin toward the young ones. “How have I wronged the gods that they allow those I love to suffer for my sins?”

“Greatness comes with a high cost.”

That finally pulled his glance toward Sifrir. “I never wanted greatness, only a place to call my own. People to call my own.”

“Greatness has been chosen for you. None of us have the power to change what the Norns have woven into our futures. Take heart that stories about you will become legends. It's all you can do. Fish don't swim upstream.”

“Actually,” interrupted Hogun, “some fish swim upstream. My brothers and sisters in distant lands trade fish to my people that make the journey upstream to spawn.”

“Fish can swim upstream,” Bucky said. “I don't want greatness. I want my family to live and die in peace. Steovan. Natalia. My mother. All of you. Why is that wrong?”

“You don't wish for Valhalla?”

“I should. Everything about our faith says I should, but I don't. Leave the drinking and battling to those whose hearts are full of fighting and anger. All I want is peace. Good, fertile ground. Don't feel very insulted, though. I am only half-Norse.”

Both of them chuckled.

Sifrir said, “We forgive your Rus blood. Come. Olga is waiting for you.”

He finally rose and followed Sifrir to have his wound patched. It was a deep puncture that hopefully wouldn't infect. Steve was counting on it not to.


	29. There Was Frost On The Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve remembers something from his past.

Another battle. Another victory for Pierce's growing alliance. Another pound of guilt and horror heaped upon Steve's shoulders.

Soldier's surrounded him. They were made up of men from many túatha from Eire and several clans from the northern countries. People chanted his name. _Steovan. Steovan._ Like the ground upon which his horse stood had become hallowed. Like his name was sacred.

Brock was the only thing keeping him in his saddle. Swaths of skin had been painted purple and yellow from Brock's fingers serving as a deterrent, both from escape and public displays of discomfort over Pierce's campaign to oust High King Flann Sinna.

Pierce raised a hand. Silence fell around the bloodied and wearied victors. “To victory!” he cried.

Hundreds of voices roared.

“Another túath has been brought to heel in the name of unification. Soon, we will overthrow the coward who refuses to face our might. We will bring order to the chaos that infuses Eire and begin a reign of peace and prosperity under the rightful reign of Steovan Rogers. He is our shield against anarchy. Though he was once stolen from us, though he has traveled far and wide, God saw fit to return him to the bosom of his birth. He is our Nomad.”

Voices rose again, people chanting the name _Nomad. Nomad. Nomad._

He reached to cover his ears, but Brock dug fingers into a deep bruise along his thigh. He stilled his reaction to avoid more pain, straightened his shoulders, and raised his mother's shield in acknowledgment of their cries. Another piece of him crumbled.

He didn't speak during their return to the main encampment. No one cared. Brock chained him to his pole back inside the hastily constructed wooden shelter and left him alone. He didn't speak for days. People brought him meals. Sometimes, Pierce came to gloat, to bleat false praises for the good work Steovan was doing in their campaign.

One afternoon, Samuel returned from an errand at sea. He came with his stool to sit outside Steve's cell and lifted the chain to rattle its length.

“Move your mouth and make words,” instructed Samuel.

Words escaped him. There was little to say when his heart felt broken and he could no longer look at the sky to escape his confinement. Eventually, he murmured, “Why do you fight for Pierce?”

“His coin is consistent and enriches the future of my daughter and the children of my people.”

Hearing the truth spoken aloud made Steve flinch. He shouldn't have been surprised, but bile still rose into his throat to gag him. He had been naive to think friendship could outweigh power and money. That was all he ever came down to: how much power and money could be wrung from his body.

“That is what Pierce must continue to believe,” Samuel continued, “and was true enough when we first contracted with him. It is not true now.”

“What is the truth?”

“There is a friend I've made who has gotten himself embroiled in a game of politics he can't hope to win by himself. Alas, his mouth gets the better of his good sense. Leaving because I have come to understand the power-hungry intentions of Pierce would also leave this friend without his only comfort and the better part of his good sense.”

Despite his mood, which turned sharply over Samuel's declaration, he touched Sam's bare ankle.

“Tell me about your homeland.”

“Oh, my homeland is beautiful. To the east, there are jungles full of green things, and you can look out over the valley and watch the mist pool over top the canopy of trees. There, you will find the spotted jaguar, a lonely hunter who hides its prey in trees. You'll find gorillas, the strongest and noblest of species who make their homes amidst dense foliage.

“To the west, you'll see great savannahs stretching far as the eye can see full of scrub grass and sparse trees. There, roam the giraffe, the elephant. There, hunts the lion and cheetah. My home is a beautiful country, bountiful but harsh. Nourishing but unforgiving.”

Steve closed his eyes to listen to Samuel's words and picture the images against the backs of his eyelids. He didn't know the animals spoken of, but the language Sam used somehow made them vivid. And such pride. He'd never heard a man speak of home with such pride before. He'd never felt that kind of pride because he'd never had a home, not really.

Samuel stopped speaking when a commotion entered camp. Numerous mounted men and women rode beyond their boarders which wasn't unusual; people came and went at all hours of the day and night. What was unusual was Brock's approach.

Steve didn't speak or acknowledge the man, not while he unlatched the chain from Steve's ankle or when he propelled him toward Pierce's tent. Once inside, he was instructed to don an indigo leine, its neckline and cuffs shot through with intricate embroidery. The material was smooth and smelled fresh.

Clearly, he was to play at being a king, then. He cinched the belt tight, tucked the jewel-encrusted knife into a sheath at his belt, and picked up the shield. It felt heavier somehow. Each time he picked it up, it felt less and less like a symbol of his mother's strength.

“This is an important meeting,” Brock began, “with grave consequences. You are expected to be on your best behavior. Make them believe you're a king worthy of a crown.”

“Or what?” asked Steve. “Do you think you can hurt me any more than you already have?”

“Me? No. I am a God-fearing man, but there are others here who aren't.” Fingertips dug into Steve's bicep to pull him to a stop. “You want me on your side, Steovan. You want my guardianship over some of those other men who will treat you with less dignity.”

“You're a hypocrite.”

Brock didn't hit him despite the tightening of his jaw; he was better than that. The look behind his eyes was cold and calculating whereas Pierce burned hot with unbridled anger. Pierce might be the politician; he might be the man vying for power, but Brock was the foundation in which he built his regime. Brock knew how to keep people in line.

Neither spoke again as Brock marched him outside Pierce's tent where a dozen people stood speaking with Pierce, who held out his hand to indicate Steve could come closer. He obeyed and allowed himself the chance to survey the newcomers. They were dressed in fine garments, long tunics like Steovan now wore and cloaks pinned at their shoulders with gold brooches.

“Allow me the privilege of introducing King Steovan Rogers, son of the mighty Sairid Rogers. Your Majesty, these people are emissaries from the kingdom of Connacht. They are here to seek alliance against the cowardly king who refuses a match in open combat.”

Steve inclined his head but didn't bow. Apparently kings didn't bow to their lessers.

The rest of the evening was unusual. They didn't return him to his cage but fed him at the high table along with Pierce and their guests. Ayo and the women of her people danced, and he found himself enthralled with the power behind their movements. After the dancing came heroic tales from Connacht and renditions of Queen Sairid dying on her deathbed and handing the shield over to Pierce to keep the kingdom safe for Steovan's return.

That wasn't right, he realized. He could feel it in the way his jaw ached. He could see it painted behind his eyelids. His body felt like it was back home in the old ring fort, inside the round house that was badly in need of renovation. 

_Sairid, strong with health and laughter while skipping across the round house hand in hand with him to put him to bed for the night. A shadow in the dark. Chaos. A sword red with blood. A crimson stain blossoming on his mother's kirtle._

_That face illuminated in a flash of lightning. The same but younger. Alexander Pierce._

_“Dispose of the boy,” Pierce commanded._

_“He could be useful if reared by your own hand in your own image,” countered Brock._

_“And have him usurp the inheritance from my own sons? Brigid is young yet. She will give me heirs soon. We must wait a little longer, but our union will bear fruit.”_

_“But sir--” Brock's head whipped to the side from the strength of Pierce's slap. He spat a mouthful of blood. “As you command, Your Majesty.”_

“That isn't right,” Steve said.

People inside the tent fell utterly silent.

“You killed my mother and ordered my death. The only reason I'm alive is because Sir Rumlow is a God-fearing man who couldn't bring himself to kill a child.”

People started speaking at once. Representatives from Connacht shouted about dishonor and lies. Brock grabbed for Steve's arm, but he wasn't frozen anymore. He wasn't prepared to stand by no matter the consequences.

He grabbed the knife from his belt and plunged it into Pierce. The only thing that spared Pierce from immediate death was Brock, ever the faithful servant, knocking Steve's arm wide so that the blade entered the meat of Pierce's shoulder.

Wrestling for his freedom from Brock was like wrestling a bull; the man was huge and corded with muscles, and once Steve could no longer grip the knife, he had no way of keeping Brock at bay.

By the time the chaos died down, the emissaries lay dead and Steve was flat on the floor with Brock's weight pinning him. Boots came into his line of sight in an angry flurry.

“I thought we had an understanding, boy?”

“We had an understanding,” agreed Steve, “that this is my home, my kingdom, my people, and you are a murderer and a usurper.”

“Teach him to hold his tongue or take it from him,” shouted Pierce. “Had you taught him to behave properly, we would not be bleeding on our own floor. Go. Make a eunuch of him. Take one. And if he misbehaves again, take the other.”

“As you command, my lord.”

Steve didn't resist when Brock hauled him to his feet. Rather, he kept his glance trained on Pierce and the growing stain of blood darkening his leine. It wasn't a mortal wound but had been given in his mother's honor. Maybe it would infect and make him rot from the inside out the way he deserved.

*

Getting dozens of people from differing túatha living in a war torn country to agree on any one thing seemed an impossibility. Everyone wanted their say and everyone thought their say was right, especially when it came to the fate of Steve.

“He rode beside Alexander Pierce and his commanders while they decimated our main army. As far as I'm concerned, he can burn right along with Pierce's household,” said the king of Briéfne, which bordered the kingdom of Baile.

“He's being held against his will,” Bucky retorted. “They make him play the puppet because they know he is a symbol the old alliances will follow. And because your countrymen are a superstitious lot who still believe in things like destiny and prophecy.”

“And you? We're supposed to make alliances with Northmen who've spent decades, nay, centuries, ravaging our borders and monasteries?”

“Are you even Christian?” asked a monk in brown robes.

“What does our faith matter when we offer the strength of our arms to win back your island from a power-hungry thief?” asked Thorir.

“You are power-hungry thieves,” the monk pointed out.

“And one of yours recognized Steovan as the heir to Baile and sold his identity to Pierce, a Judas looking for his thirty pieces of silver,” shouted Bucky.

“Blasphemer. Your Steovan is not Christ.”

“And your kind have no honor.”

The argument would have continued for an untold amount of time. People of Eire had no reason to trust them, and Pierce had been a clever bastard by making Steve look complicit.

But the sudden arrival of more than a dozen horsemen carrying the banner of Connacht interrupted the proceedings. As one, they dismounted and approached to take a knee before Flann Sinna, who sat at the head of the Celtic contingent.

“High King, we report from Muiredaig, king of Connacht. He sent emissaries to Pierce to seek peace amongst Eire. They were seen entering Pierce's territory but never returned. They were murdered, High King. Connacht will stand with you and your allies to save our kingdoms from this evil.”

The first real sense of relief since being parted from Steovan washed over him in a dizzying tide. Killing emissaries was a declaration of war; it was the push they'd needed to become a unified front against the black tide that followed Pierce across the land.

Silence returned at the raising of Flann Sinna's hand. 

“I believe there may be a compromise here. Should one of your officers agree to convert and enter into a union of marriage with my daughter, our people could raise swords together as allies. We would feel comfortable calling you friends instead of enemies.”


	30. When the Tigers Broke Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve stops being complacent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic violence and threat of genital mutilation.

“It's not too late to change your mind,” commented Volstagg while standing beside Fandral, who wore his best, but in true Fandral style, seemed completely at ease inside his own skin.

The gathering for the Baptism and wedding was nestled on an embankment between two branches of a river. Finery was lacking. The bride had only just arrived from her father's court only to be rushed into a tent to be prepared for the wedding. Few people had gotten a good look at her except Volstagg and Bucky, who'd seen Fandral's future wife from a distance.

“I believe the All-Father will forgive me for being the romantic hero. What do you say, Heimdall? Will he forgive me for my blasphemy? It's only water, after all.”

Heimdall rolled his eyes.

Once again, Bucky felt like he hovered on the outside of something much larger. It was a situation he didn't understand with questions he didn't know to ask. So he remained silent as they exited the tent where Fandral had made himself ready to see the bride surrounded by her family and putting the finishing touches on her apparel.

Rather, he asked, “Are you sure you want to marry her?”

Affraic was a homely girl with a plain face and a shade of hair caught somewhere between earthen and flaxen. She'd braided it into two, long plaits that hanged down over small breasts. A pear, Bucky decided. She was shaped like a pair, nowhere near the caliber of woman Fandral normally found company with. Guilt for shackling Fandral with such a girl weighed on his shoulders.

“Do you cast aspersions on my future wife?” asked the groom.

“She's not up to your usual standards, you must admit,” responded Volstagg.

“We all thought Dagr had gone blind when he chose you for his bed.” Fandral elbowed the girth of Volstagg's stomach none-too-gently.

Bucky chuckled. He envied their easy camaraderie.

Growing more serious, Fandral said, “She's a fine woman. Perhaps a little shy, but Celts aren't so respectful of their women's strengths. Not like us Norse. Arses like you two have made her shy of herself, uncertain of her own value. Say anything about her when she's my wife, and you'll find my boot up your thick arses.”

Bucky raised his hands in defeat and stepped back. “It's not for me to say who you should accept as wife, nor how you shall be happy in your marriage. I only wish you the best for this sacrifice you make on my behalf.”

“Love is not a sacrifice.”

He repeated the phrase to himself throughout the wedding ceremony. The affair was quick and lacked any of the usual fanfare. Fandral took Affraic's hand from her father. Vows were exchanged in front of a priest, and they became man and wife in the eyes of God and the mixed gathering of guests.

Afterward, Fandral walked into the water to be dunked beneath by a priest. He came up sodden and looking just the same as he'd gone under. Nothing new stood out. He didn't radiate a golden glow. The All-Father didn't send down horrors upon them. The only thing of note, Bucky saw, was a pair of crows taking flight from a nearby tree and winging their way to the north.

Hours after the feasting had died down and the bride and groom had retired to their own tent, Thorir found him sitting outside his own and offered him a cup of beer.

“You have your army,” Thorir announced.

Something melancholy darkened his spirits, and he rolled the beer around inside the cup. “Sometimes, I wish you were your namesake so I could know for certain the outcome of the coming war. Nothing has ever been so important to me. That is love, I suppose, but it's a silly thought, gods getting involved in the affairs of mortal men.”

“If I were my namesake, I'd tell you that gods recognize when some lives are extraordinary and deserve a little extra hand for them to fulfill their destiny. Also, even gods get bored and enjoy meddling.”

Bucky smiled over at him and finally took a drink from his cup. “If you were a god.”

“If I were a god.”

*

Steve's knees buckled. He hit the ground. The scent of dirt flooded his nostrils. Leaves from last year's fall crackled beneath his weight. He inhaled and coughed.

“Idiot boy,” Rumlow snarled. “You could have beaten him if you'd only had patience. Lulled him into complacency. Used his ego against him. Killed him when he least suspected it. But your temper. Your temper has gotten you into the kind of trouble pretty words won't get you out of.”

“I'd have to have gone through you, and that is the bigger challenge.”

“Make this easier on yourself, boy.”

Brock approached with a rope, and for the space of several breaths, fear rooted him to the spot. Long enough for his nemesis to tie his hands together and loop the rope over the branch of a tree to hold his arms extended above him. Once secured, Brock heated a knife over a fire.

“Spread your legs.”

He didn't obey.

“This will happen. Accept your fate, and when we show Pierce the deed has been done, you will hold your tongue and learn your place. Else you'll lose the other.”

Steve spread his legs.

Brock lifted the hem of his leine and tucked it under his belt to expose him.

His breathing stuttered out of control. Fear curled up into his throat. His vision narrowed down to a pinprick of sensation, to the abject terror of being marred in such a way. So he moved. He lashed out at the last second, kicking Brock square in the face while twisting his hands in an effort to free himself.

Brock got to his feet and stooped to pick up the dropped knife.

He came closer, anger tightening the granite of his face.

Something around Steve's wrists gave, allowing him to drop beneath the attack. He rolled his weight into Brock's legs. Their limbs tangled, but it was enough to knock his opponent to the ground, enough for him to put some distance between them.

He needed to run. He didn't want to run, but they were on the edge of the encampment. It was his best chance to escape, so instead of staying to fight, he turn and fled. Branches whipped at his face as he sped past. He barreled right into a sentry, who was taken by surprise, enough so that Steve got the upper hand and smashed his head against a rock.

Feet pounded behind him. Brock's furious bellows chased him into the dense foliage. He didn't stop to ensure the guard was dead. There wasn't time. He was on his feet again within seconds and streaking through the underbrush, breath panicky in his own ears.

Brock caught him near the edge of a stream and took him down with a flying leap that sent both men tumbling down the embankment and into the frigid water. Steve came up first with a gasp. He tossed his head to throw shoulder-length hair out of his face and was prepared when Brock attacked.

He dodged before throwing his weight beneath Brock's striking arm and into his body. Brock stumbled. He tripped over rocks on the creek bed, knife flying from his hand as he fought to regain his balance. A lethal advantage now lay between them beneath the stream.

Water splashed as they moved at once, scrambling for the dropped knife. Steve got there seconds before Brock, closing his fist around the handle. He swung wildly, causing Brock to stay well back, but their standoff could only last so long. Someone would come. Other sentries would have heard the commotion and were likely already on their way.

So he danced forward. When he jagged, Brock was no longer there, because Brock could move. Brock had experience. Brock could anticipate his every move. Steve felt weak. Helpless. Frustrated.

He lost the advantage when Brock went on the offensive. He crowded Steve, who gave ground and backed up the embankment in an effort to get on more even footing, but he backed into a tree. Desperate, he swung the knife down toward Brock's shoulder. Brock intercepted the blow with his forearm. The blade dug into Brock's flesh, but he didn't seem to notice.

“Did you think you would win?” Brock asked, breathing even. “The African hasn't had enough time training you to turn you into a real soldier, boy. What is they call you? Baby bird.”

In that moment, Steve believed him. With his ragged breath and his heart thundering and fear roaring through his ears. He was a baby bird. Utterly harmless to a man like Brock. 

That moment of doubt was all Brock needed to wrench the knife from his hand. The point of the blade pushed through Steve's flesh. His eyes widened. Pain registered slowly at first and then in one sharp burst that made him scream. Gods help him, but he screamed. And twisted. And tore his own flesh writhing to get away.

A wild motion caused his hand to collide with Brock's face. The blow snapped Brock's head back and left him dazed. And Steve? Steve pushed with all his strength, and his enemy gave ground. He kept pushing. Kept screaming. Kept an iron grip on the desperation fueling him. He felt nothing. He heard nothing but the phantom voice of the man he loved desperate to free him.

Until they couldn't go any farther. Breath punched from Brock's lungs. He glanced down.

Steve followed his gaze to see the ragged end of a branch protruding from Brock's chest.

Steve stumbled backward and fell on his arse without taking his gaze away from Brock. He said, “Pray to your god that he forgives you for following the command of an evil man.”

Brock bowed his head. Latin prayers spilled from his lips. Blood welled in his mouth and dribbled down his chin. After a few moments, his eyes became flat and lifeless.


	31. And No One Survived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is hunted.

Approaching footsteps propelled Steve into action. He clamped a hand low on his pelvis where the wound seeped blood, grabbed Brock's knife, and fled. He stumbled through the undergrowth, crossed one stream, and headed east. Because as far as he could tell, Dublin was in that direction, and last he heard, Dublin was back under Norway's control.

He stumbled upon another stream some time later and splashed into it where he crouched to scoop handfuls of water to drink greedily. The water was tainted by the tang of blood from his own hand, the one he kept pressed against the wound in an effort to hold it in. His hands shook so badly more water spilled out than made it to his mouth.

Back on shaky feet, he forded his way downstream to cover his tracks. Hours passed. Every time he stopped to catch his breath, he heard the distant sound of pursuit. They were on his trail despite his best efforts. What with a bleeding wound and no way to stop droplets from dripping onto nearby foliage.

He felt hunted. Every splash of crimson that escaped was one less ounce of strength. Even if they didn't catch him, chances were, he would bleed out long before he reached Dublin. At least he would die a free man, not some pet used to further the cause of Alexander Pierce.

Dogs barked. It sent shivers down his spine. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, but every stop gave the enemy that much more time to catch up with him, so he pushed away and stumbled on. The creek turned into a larger stream, and his weakened condition wouldn't allow him to ford the stronger current, forcing him out of the water and back onto dry land.

He pushed onward. He'd been injured on the right side, his weaker side thank all the gods, so the pain radiated down his right leg and into his feet. Soon, he dragged it along behind him, unable to bear much weight without shouting himself hoarse and giving away his position. 

His foot caught on a root. He fell. Breath whooshed from his lungs. He bit into his cheek to keep from screaming. _Get up,_ he commanded himself. Not a single part of him responded. It was over. He was done. H couldn't take another step, not with the blood loss and exhaustion.

And the dogs came closer.

Considering he'd been brought up as a courtesan, his every need attended to, he'd done a fair job of escaping. At least he would die fighting. Remembering the knife made him clutch it tighter to his chest. He would die trying to get back to Bucky, whom he loved despite all his flaws. Perhaps Bucky's gods were real. Perhaps he would go to Valhalla and Bucky would find him there one day.

People were right around the bend, footsteps heavy against the forest floor. The dogs came first. They were tall and thin, bred for coursing, not bringing down large game. He knew that dog. She scampered right up to him with her behind wagging and lapped at his face.

“Dramatic to the bitter end,” said Samuel.

Ayo, Eako, and several of their tribe came after bearing hunting spears.

“Had you stopped running at any point, Baby Bird, we could have bandaged that wound properly and saved you much blood loss. M'Baku?” 

The man who approached towered over Samuel and wore a grass skirt. He crouched and reached into a bag at his waist to take out bandages and other supplies Steve didn't care to put name to. All he knew was relief made him weak in the knees. It made him tremble harder than before.

“Sam,” Steve wheezed. “How did you... What about your contract?” He settled with, “You came.”

“I shit on my contract months ago.”

“Children,” Ayo warned.

Sam looked sheepish. He took his wife's hand and kissed her knuckles. “Forgive my language, my heart. I stayed with Pierce because this fool was trying to get himself killed. Now, we will no longer serve a man who has no honor.”

“You came,” Steve repeated while cupping Samuel's cheek.

“Don't kiss me, Baby Bird. My wife's standing right there.”

“Stop flapping your gums,” she interrupted. “You must let M'Baku do his work. You must also send Red Wing with news on where the others should meet us.” She beckoned one of their people, who came forward with a hooded hawk on their arm, bells on its jesses tinkling as it moved. “Also, we must find Baby Bird's man before Pierce hunts us down for desertion.”

“Practical as always, my heart.”

“Don't flatter, dear one. You only married me for the number of spears I could muster to your cause.”

“A worthy quality to love.”

Their interaction made his heart ache with longing. He missed Bucky. His arms ached to hold him again, and his body ached to be held. He couldn't die, he decided, not now that he was so close to being reunited with the man he loved.

M'Baku kind of made him want to die, though, with his sharp needles and his poultices that made Steve feel like his insides were on fire, but later that night, when they'd made it some distance from Pierce's land and found a good place to camp, M'Baku won back his esteem by giving him a bowl of cooked vegetables drizzled in a flavorful sauce without a single piece of meat in sight.

*

“Let's go again,” Bucky instructed. “You're bringing up your guard too late.”

“Kick his arse, Natty!” Lokir shouted from the sidelines.

Natalia exploded into action, and she was fast. She struck like a snake. They should have nicknamed her Viper, but Little Spider best suited the speed with which she climbed around on the ship's mast to tighten the rigging or spot for obstacles in the water.

She was getting good, too.

He missed intercepting one of her long-bladed knives and got nicked for his troubles. Lokir's laughter did nothing to soothe his ego, not that he would admit to anything but pride in his daughter's skill.

They re-settled in their fighting stances and were prepared for another pass when commotion at the edge of camp stole their attention. Bucky dismissed his pupils, sheathed his blade, and hurried to discover the cause.

An African entourage stood between Celtic sentries. They were armed with spears and curved swords but none appeared aggressive. No one reached for their weapons. Their faces remained implacable.

Their apparent white flag would win them no affection in his book; he recognized them as people who fought for Pierce. He said as much when he opened his mouth to speak.

“No longer,” the man replied. “We seek a man called Boguslav Bjarnson. His friends call him Bucky.”

“That's me.”

“We have your Steovan.”

Bucky went stone still, hardly able to understand what had been said. “Say that again.”

“Your Steovan resides in our camp some miles from here. His injuries prevented him from making the journey himself. Also, we wished to verify your identity before turning him over into your custody. He is our friend, you see. We will see no further harm come to him.”

“Take me to him.” He didn't even give it a moment's thought. Steve was nearby. That was all that mattered, so good sense flew right out of his head.

“Wait.” Sifrir put a hand on his shoulder. “These people are unknown to us. Yet we are supposed to believe their intentions are honorable? This could be a ruse to capture or kill you. They could easily use you against Steovan.”

The woman smiled, white teeth a stark contrast to her dark skin. “I am pleased to see cleverness among your women. Pierce is a Christian. They are not so supportive of fighting women.”

“It is as the say,” Sifrir said, “where Christianity flourishes, a scourge falls upon women.”

“We have no guarantees to offer except for this. You've forbidden Steve from cooking fish, and I have never met a man so squeamish when it comes to eating meat.”

Laughter spilled from him. He laughed long and loud. His ribs ached, and he drew the attention of everyone in the vicinity. “Sifrir, would you bring my horse?”

“Only if you'll wait to take an escort. Volstagg and Hogun. Myself and Brunnhilde.”

He glanced at the strangers to determine if the compromise was agreeable, and after their leader's nod, Bucky caved. As long as they hurried.

“What happened? How did you get him away from Pierce? What injuries has he sustained? How bad is his condition? Will we be able to move him to the main camp soon?”

The man, who introduced himself as Samuel and his wife as Ayo, filled him in on the details while they rode. And Bucky had never felt such pride before. His Steve, who hadn't known how to feed himself outside the brothel that had been his home, had won his own freedom. He'd never given up nor given in but had, instead, flourished under hardship into a man worthy of being a king.


	32. From the Royal Fusiliers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion everyone's been waiting for.

A grimace marred Steve's face as M'Baku eased the bandage, sticky with drying discharge, free from the wound. The line of neat stitches looked clean and pink. No sign of infection. No pus. No angry, red flesh. Just healing skin. Some might call it a miracle. M'Baku would never allow such a thing as miracles to take credit for his diligent work.

Constant travel, though, had aggravated the injury and caused it to start seeping again. As a result, M'Baku had threatened him with a crocodile—Steve still couldn't wrap his mind around the descriptions of said beast—if he didn't stay abed rather than going with Samuel and Ayo to the nearby encampment. Every piece of intelligence suggested it was Flann Sinna's main base of operations, and surely Bucky would be there also.

Antsy, he dropped his head back against a rough-woven pillow.

“Continue making that face, Baby Bird, and your lip will soon drag the ground,” M'Baku said while cleaning up from changing the bandages. “They'll return shortly with your man. Here. Eat.”

Steve turned his nose away from the bowl. “I'm not hungry.”

M'Baku released a bark of laughter. “And the Nile is a mere stream. I did not think we would ever find the bottom of that pit you call a stomach.”

His companion had cause to scoff. Since his escape, Steve had spent the days eating M'Baku out of house and home. The physician was the only person who seemed to understand the joy of good vegetables without the taint of meat, preferring a more common diet of grains, vegetables, and precious spices he kept locked away in a chest that had traveled with him from his homeland.

“They should be back by now. What if something happened? What if Pierce's--”

“Pierce has little sense of restraint, but even he has common sense enough not to approach such a large war camp as that gathered by Flann Sinna and your Northmen. Now eat.”

Reluctantly, he accepted the bowl piled high with beans and oats, leeks and onions, peas and turnips. One mouthful was all it took to bring back his appetite, savory spices seeping into his tongue and firing up his senses. His stomach rumbled. He ignored his worry in favor of wolfing down the meal with enough speed M'Baku shook his head in disbelief.

“Bottomless pit,” muttered M'Baku.

They sat in silence, M'Baku preparing bundles of dry herbs and Steve working on learning the letters his new friends were teaching him. A whore had no need to read or write, but a king would, so he applied himself diligently to becoming an educated man.

It wasn't long before a commotion at the edge of camp distracted him. Made him sit forward. A flurry of languages filled the clearing. Greetings were exchanged. Then came a voice Steve would know anywhere, the deep, gruff voice of the man he ached to hold.

He started to rise, but M'Baku prevented him.

The tent flap flew open. Bucky filled the entrance with his strong body, with his broad shoulders, with the presence that wrapped around him and drew attention. Bucky rushed forward to grab for Steve, but M'Baku stepped into his path, causing a rumbling growl.

“Gently,” rebuked M'Baku.

Nodding, Bucky stepped around him and was finally there.

Steve sighed when Bucky's broad palm cupped his cheek. He pressed into the touch, helpless to silence the needy whimper or ignore the desire to sink into Bucky's very pores. To somehow tether them together so they could never be parted again.

In turn, he cupped Bucky's nape to urge him forward and down. Close enough for their lips to brush. He sighed into Bucky's mouth. A missing piece slotted back into place, making him whole again. Their kiss was chaste, with Bucky's hand wandered, seemingly unsure where to touch.

“You're here,” Bucky breathed. “You're alive. You're really here.”

“I'm here.”

They kissed again, slow like sweet honey and deep as the ocean. Their tongues touched. Steve moaned into Bucky's mouth, allowed his lover to drink the sounds pouring from him, to absorb the relief that finally relaxed his muscles. He tried to get closer somehow to relearn Bucky's touch. No one had ever touched him like Bucky. Like he was a precious thing worthy to be cherished.

Across the tent, M'Baku cleared his throat and said, “Hurt my patient, and I'll cut out your heart and eat it while it still beats in my palm.”

Bucky stiffened.

But Steve laughed, laughter making him place a hand against his wound for support. “Don't mind him. He doesn't eat meat.”

“Perhaps not, but I could take his head home in a basket and feed it to the crocodiles.”

“What's a crocodile?” asked Bucky.

A bark of laughter and rapid Afrikans followed their host as he left the tent, propping the flap open on his way as a reminder to keep their hands in decent places.

Bucky unwrapped the wool strips from around his shins and removed his muddy shoes before sitting beside Steve. The pallet he rested on was made soft by numerous rugs and stuffed pillows, so Steve scooted close enough they were plastered together.

“Tell me everything. I want to know everything they did to you, so I can make them suffer the way you have suffered. My heart. My everything.” He lifted Steve's knuckles to his lips.

“One day I will but not today. Today, I want you to hold me. Just hold me and let me remember those idyllic days at the farm where our only care was good, hard labor and learning to fall in love.”

“Anything for the man who holds my heart.”

“You do,” Steve responded. “My heart.” He kissed Bucky's chest where his heart beat strong and sure. “My head.” He kissed Bucky's forehead. “My hands. My feet. My ass. My cock. My everything. I want to brand myself against your skin. This feeling is one I never knew could exist, but you were the one thing that kept me going despite all the fear and heartbreak.”

Bucky dropped a kiss atop Steve's head and held him close.

A night and another day passed while they waited for Steve to heal well enough to make the journey to the main encampment. The days were idle. The nights were spent wrapped together in quiet conversation. Bucky wanted to touch. Wanted to slide his hand beneath the leine Steve wore, take his cock in hand, and remind him what it meant to feel good, but he didn't trust himself to touch him when he was in such a delicate condition.

Eventually, they would have to break camp. There was a war yet to win, and Flann Sinna had sworn his support to Steve's claim on the kingship of Baile so long as Steve swore fealty to him as the High King of Eire. But just another day. Just another night.

A night where Steve caught Bucky's hand and pulled it between his legs where Bucky felt the hard ridge of his cock. He groaned and pressed his forehead into Steve's shoulder.

“Your wound.”

“M'Baku told us to be gentle, not that we shouldn't touch each other. My wound does not hurt so much as my unsatisfied cock.”

Bucky was weak. He was weak and caved without much of a fight, fingers curling around Steve and stroking, thumb tracing the crown whenever it peaked from the foreskin. The cockhead was especially sensitive there on Steve, and he knew just how to make his toes curl and his body needy. 

Steve was beautiful when he was trapped in that limbo between release and pleasure, with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, and his chest heaving from erratic breaths.

Bucky spat in his palm to lubricate the chafing of his hand as he jerked Steve faster. And faster still. Until Steve stiffened and his body curled like he'd been punched in the gut. Ropes of white pulsed from his cock, glistening under the candle light where it coated his stomach and chest.

Proud of himself, he coaxed a few extra dollops free before Steve pushed his hand away and cried that it was enough. Bucky sucked the spend from his fingers.

Steve turned toward him, reaching for his belt, but hissed.

Bucky pushed him back down and got onto his knees, loosening his trousers enough to pull himself free, his cock hard and red at the tip. Fingertips smeared through the seed coating Steve's stomach and used it to lubricate himself as he pulled on his cock. Having Steve watch him. Knowing his cock was coated in Steve's spend. It made his skin tingle and heat flood his loins.

“Show me,” Steve murmured. “Show me how much you want me.”

“Always. More than anything in the world.”

“Spend yourself on me. I want you on my body so I can rub you into my skin. So I can be yours always and you can be mine.”

Between Steve's words and his own hands, he couldn't help himself. He whined low in his throat. His expression tightened. He was nearly bent double by the intensity of the release that snapped the tension in his loins. Seed spurted onto the mess already cooling on Steve's stomach. When he could take no more, he collapsed on his side. There was nothing so intimate as his softening cock resting on Steve's hip or the way Steve held his promise and rubbed their combined spend into his skin.

*

After a week, M'Baku declared Steve stable enough to be moved on horseback with Bucky mounted behind for added support. They, along with their new allies, packed up camp and returned to the larger encampment in a field dotted with hundreds of tents.

Cheers greeted their return. Nat was well enough to bounce in their direction and was the first one there beside Bucky's horse where she curled fingers around Steve's ankle. She didn't say anything, just touched him, smiled, and made room for Volstagg to come and lift Steve down from the horse and into a bear hug that caused Steve to wince.

“Gently,” Bucky repeated after M'Baku.

“You are most welcome,” Volstagg greeted.

“A sight for sore eyes,” agreed Dagr. “Bucky has been a miserable arse without you.”

Bucky watched, an alpha wolf keeping close eye on his mate, as Steve was passed from person to person. Heimdall even broke a smile which took everyone by surprise. Family, he reminded himself. Of course they were glad to see Steve. He was part of their family.

Men in leather armor and leines died green for the color of the high king interrupted the reunion with their approach. Between them was the king himself, a man in his late thirties whose body was hardened from a life of war and good health. He had a charismatic face with a nose that had been broken more than once and dark hair peppered with gray.

Celts bowed their heads at his coming. Northmen did not, but all made way to allow Flann Sinna a path to Steve.

The high king spoke in Gaelic. “Steovan Rogers, you have the look of your mother. The same blue eyes and fair complexion. I knew her; God keep her soul. Eire lost a fierce patriot the day she died.”

“Alexander Pierce murdered her.”

Flann Sinna stood taller and commanded, “Look me in the eyes and tell me you were a captive of Alexander and not his ally.”

“I was his captive.”

“Swear it to me. Give me your fealty, your honor, and I will recognize you as the heir to the kingship of Baile. I will help you to restore your birthright.”

Getting to his knees was a struggle, so Bucky grasped him under the arms to take some of his weight. When he was down, he pressed a hand to his heart.

“I recognize you as the high king of Eire and swear fealty to your cause. I pledge myself to justice for everyone killed by Pierce's march toward power and all the people who died because my name was used to legitimize Pierce's claims.”

“Then take my hand and let us begin.”

Bucky felt a sickening mixture of pride and fear for the remainder of the day. They all met in Flann Sinna's tent to discuss strategy. Steve and Samuel had valuable information regarding the number of Pierce's forces. That number was dishearteningly high but not insurmountable anymore.

Support from the Scandanavian countries had dwindled in the wake of Arkady's death. Thorir had numerous allies in Dublin and other Norse settlements to call upon. They had assembled an army worth fearing, but Pierce still had allies from Britain and the Pictish tribes north of Hadrian's Wall. It would be close whether they could muster enough forces to not be overrun.

Which was what sparked the argument in Bucky's tent that night. Because Steve was stubborn. And foolish. And honorable. And far too vulnerable.

“I'm going to fight in the battle against Pierce,” he announced. “I'm going to kill him.”


	33. Company Z

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve share a quiet moment.

The argument followed them during the days of planning and campaign strategy. It followed them into Bucky's tent at night and haunted them during their waking hours. They had reached an impasse over which neither would budge.

“He'll kill you,” Bucky spat.

“Why do you have so little faith in me?” asked Steve as he unlaced the neckline of his leine and peeled his arms from the sleeves. The top half sagged down to the belt around his waist, leaving him naked from the waist up, a distracting sight indeed.

“Because you have no training. No experience. Alexander Pierce has a lifetime of both, and if you face him in combat, you'll die.”

“You don't know that,” insisted Steve.

“I've seen it happen!” He clenched hands into fists. His knuckles ached. “The Danelaw recruited lads too young to have become seasoned and sent them into battle where they were slaughtered before they could bloody their swords. That battle left even me scarred.”

“Samuel's been teaching me.”

“And how many times have you beaten him in open combat?”

Steve's lips remained sealed, his grimace tight.

A frustrated breath escaped. “Don't ask me to endure this. Don't make me lose you again. I don't think I could stand it a second time, knowing you're gone, trying to fall asleep without you beside me.”

Steve's expression softened before he closed the distance between them to cup Bucky's face, and Bucky melted. He sagged against this man who'd invaded his heart and made him care again.

“Don't you think I feel the same when you go into combat?”

“There's a difference between us. I've been fighting for years. I have experience.”

“And you've said it yourself that even veterans die.”

Bucky didn't know what to say. No, that wasn't right. He knew what he wanted to say. It involved forbidding Steve from getting anywhere near the battlefield in the coming days, but Steve wasn't a thrall, and he couldn't make him do a thing that went against the man he was becoming. No matter how much it hurt him to think about Steve bleeding out during the chaos.

“Promise me you'll stay by my side,” he began. “Don't let yourself be separated from me. Don't die. Fuck. Please, don't die. I didn't like the man I was before I met you. You've changed me in so many ways, so you can't leave me floundering.”

“Do you like the man you are now?”

“Yes,” he whispered, lips a scant distance from Steve's.

He pushed into a messy kiss that was slick and needy. It was the kind of kiss that made him feel whole again. He licked into Steve's mouth to find his own paradise. Valhalla could rot. The scalding mouth sucking on his tongue, the big hands curling into his hair, the body pressed flush to his, they were the only sort of paradise he needed.

They shouldn't fuck.

“We shouldn't,” he repeated aloud. “Your wound. If we open it, M'Baku really will have my head.”

“Please.”

The way Steve looked at him, the way he begged, set a fire in Bucky's loins. Nothing mattered in that moment but being close with the man he loved, reminding each other they were still alive despite all the odds stacked against them.

“Gently then,” he returned.

Soft light from pots of oil cast a fiery sheen to Steve's skin when he loosened the knot on his belt which was the only thing holding up his leine. Fabric slithered to the canvas floor, and Bucky's hungry gaze gorged upon the sight of him.

Long months of capture had changed Steve. He was thinner, paler, his musculature less defined. Bruises, both new and old, littered his body. Gone was the Adonis from the brothel. Standing before him was a whole person, one who'd learned to weather the challenges of life and stand on his own against tribulations.

“I'm not so good to look at anymore,” Steve said.

“Hush. Don't speak so about my heart, whose body I cherish more than my own.”

Color rose in Steve's cheeks.

Bucky moved nearer. He flattened a palm on Steve's stomach and slid it upward, caressing warm skin and prickly chest hair. “This is your body.” Fingertips swept around a dusky nipple until it pulled into a tight peak and made Steve shiver. “This body belongs to you. It helped you defeat Rumlow. It allowed you to escape Pierce. It taught you to survive. Love this body the way I do because I won't hear it defamed.”

A smile quirked his lips that he pressed into Steve's shoulder, and he kissed his way southward. He dipped his tongue into his navel, followed the trail of hair to a nest of golden curls, ignoring the fresh bandage along the way. His mouth turned greedy and stole a quick taste of Steve's shaft.

Drunk on the moment, he grazed his nose along the shaft. Musk filled his senses. He buried his nose in Steve's curls, delighted by each gasp and moan he elicited along the way. All the while, Steve stared down at him with expressions warring across his features: naked awe, vulnerability, and perhaps a twinge of self-doubt.

Bucky cupped Steve's thickening cock. He pressed it flat to Steve's stomach and licked the underside from root to tip, fingers rolling back the foreskin so his tongue could play around the lip of its head.

“Use me,” he said. “When I take you into my mouth, I want you to use me for your pleasure.” And oh, the heat those words conjured in his own loins. The way they sounded on his tongue in combination with the intensity of Steve's gaze made him quake.

He wrapped his lips around the head and sank down, down, down, around the scalding heat and velvety softness in his mouth. The weight of it nestled on his tongue, salty and slightly bitter.

Steve's head dropped back. He groaned. The length of his body strained into the touch, and it made Bucky feel like a king among kings, like a god, for moving this man to such emotion.

Both of his hands snaked around Steve's waist to grip twin handfuls of his ass so that when he slid back down, he could pull Steve's hips forward to meet him. It was all the encouragement Steve needed to buck his hips, driving himself into Bucky's willing mouth.

The thrusts were soft at first. Too soft. But Bucky swallowed around the head, and Steve's restraint broke. Fingers laced through Bucky's hair. The pace increased. Steve used him, and it felt incredible to surrender himself to Steve's need, to his desires, to the hot, hard length plunging along his tongue and into his throat.

“Bucky,” Steve called in supplication.

He squeezed Steve's ass and dug his fingers into the meat there.

Steve stiffened. Shudders raced through him. Goosebumps pebbled his skin.

Salt and bitterness spurted into Bucky's mouth, onto his tongue, and down his throat. The pleasure of it astounded him. Being vulnerable left him open and wanting in away he'd never experienced before. After swallowing every drop, he moved to get to his feet but was prevented from doing so by the weight of Steve's cock resting against his lips.

“This is what it must feel like to be equal,” Steve whispered, voice choked.

Again, he moved to stand. Again, he was denied. The weight of Steve's cock was a shackle without chains, giving him permission to stay in the moment and enjoy being on his knees.

“No one has ever given me pleasure for my own sake.”

The way Steve looked standing over him left him in awe.

“Listen. I have never been in love before. I didn't know what it meant or how it felt, but I do now. When this is over and Pierce has been defeated, I want you to stay here with me. Let this be our home. We can rebuild what he has torn down, adopt children together who can carry on our legacy.

“Please, tell me you'll stay.”

Wetness leaked from the corners of Bucky's eyes. He nodded as much as possible. Home. A place no one could take from him or he from it. He could send for his mother if she still lived. They could have a life here with Steve, a family.

“I will.”

*

Steve went to his knees to be on equal level with Bucky. They shared the taste of his spend with open mouths and insistent tongues. Everything fell away as they held each other: the war, the camp outside, their wounds and scars. Only breathless anticipation remained.

He laid back against the pillows. Beside him rested a clay jar into which he dipped his fingers to dribble a line of olive oil down his chest and into the cradle of his loins. There, his fingers lingered to caress his balls before they slid back between his cheeks to tease his hole. The hair on his body still startled him, but he took pleasure in its texture, in learning the soft whorls around his hole.

Goosebumps spread across his skin as he sank two fingers into himself. The stretch burned worse than normal. Too much time had passed since he'd last been penetrated. He groaned.

The noises he made turned softer when Bucky moved between his outstretched legs. Bucky's fingers moved alongside his. One pressed into him, following the tract he'd already made, causing him to arch and cry out. The fullness and pressure felt like flying.

Then, the thickness of Bucky's cock was there, dripping oil, and sliding into the split of his ass cheeks where it nestled, a friendly reunion.

They shared breath and kisses. Bucky pulsed his hips. The ridge of his cockhead grazing along the valley between his cheeks. Occasionally, the head caught against his loosened hole, causing his hole to spasm and ache with emptiness.

“Please,” he gasped, “don't tease. Let me have you.”

Bucky, his beautiful face contorted with ecstasy, pressed down on his cock to line himself up. After came the pressure, the fullness, the tight feeling of being possessed, not by someone who'd paid for his body but by someone he loved and who loved him in return.

They paused with Bucky's hips pressed tight to his ass to trade messy kisses, to share breath and closeness, and when they finally moved, Steve didn't want to fly away. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be present in the moment, in the shared passion and heat.

The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of sex ad the heat of their bodies when Steve came a second time. He fisted his hands against the rugs on which they fucked, keening a wanton sound as Bucky stiffened. Bucky released a desperate sound. His expression opened into joy as heat flooded Steve's ass.

“My heart,” Bucky murmured while hiding his face in Steve's neck. “You must live.”


	34. They Were All Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic depictions of violence and death.

Steve was afraid, but he reckoned every other man and woman arranged on either side of him was also, and he wasn't even on the front line. Bucky's doing, no doubt. Flann Sinna had said something about kings outliving their subjects lest their kingdoms be plunged into chaos.

A half mile of gentle, rolling hills stood between them and Pierce's army. Pierce wouldn't be on the front line either. Likely, he wouldn't even lift a sword unless they could rush his position and force him into action. He was all for cutting across the battlefield and heading straight for the snake.

Overhead, vultures shrieked. Somehow, they knew there would soon be flesh to feast upon. In the distance? Two crows sat upon the lowest branch of a tree.

“Don't attempt lethal blows,” Bucky said beside him. “Slice a man's tendons and he's out of combat. Use your height to your advantage. Your reach will be longer.”

Murmurs rushed up and down the line as leaders from both armies broke ranks to meet at the center of the field. Thorir, one of Flann Sinna's generals, and a handful of retainers for their side. Pierce sent men Steve didn't recognize but showed no sign of himself, a habit of his.

No one held much hope of stopping the battle before it began, though. Pierce wasn't the type to back down, especially not when their armies were near to evenly matched after the King of Connacth had sworn fealty to Flann Sinna. Oh, how he would have loved to have seen Pierce's face after finding out.

“Are you listening, Steve?”

“Yes. Don't wait for a mortal blow. Hack their limbs off instead.”

Samuel, leaning against a spear, chuckled.

Bucky said, “Don't encourage him. Why am I the only one who wants to drag him back to camp and lock him up somewhere safe? You're his friend. You should agree with me.”

“Because you have the most to lose. He dies, and you've lost your entire world. I've only lost a silly Celt who has more pride than sense.”

A growl from Bucky was warning enough for Steve to intervene. “He jests. Samuel has a strange sense of humor. I think one of his elephants kicked him in the head.”

Ayo snorted laughter. “A thing I have accused him of myself.”

Samuel laughed again, and Bucky just seemed bewildered.

“It seems we will fight today after all,” Ayo remarked, indicating the riders breaking ranks and returning to their own sides.

Thorir, astride a hardy horse, was the first to arrive. He said, “Pierce refuses terms of surrender. So we fight for glory. For honor. For Valhalla.”

“For Valhalla” shouted the Northmen.

“Where the brave live forever,” Thorir cried.

Steve was swept up in the moment and cried out along with them, and somehow, he felt less afraid surrounded by the unified ranks of Northmen. The intensity of their battle-lust spilled through his veins. Bucky's lamellar armor didn't feel so wrong resting on his own shoulders.

Flann Sinna called the charge, and men surged into motion.

*

There was chaos all around. Steve was jostled on all sides. The ground vibrated beneath his feet. He slipped in dirt that had been churned into mud by the blood of the fallen.

He lost his footing tripping over a dead body. He didn't have the focus to spare to find out if it was one of theirs or Pierce's. What he knew was the moment of distraction nearly cost him his life. 

An enemy seized the opening, but Steve twisted at the last breath. He clamped his arm down around the shaft of the enemy's spear as it slid past his side. Turning wrenched the weapon from its wielder. He leaped forward. The wooden shield he carried careened into the enemy's face, sending him spinning to the ground.

The field seethed with struggling bodies. He couldn't even take a full breath. He wasn't even certain the men he stabbed were Pierce's or his own. The battle had become a mass of human flesh with individuals struggling to survive but losing hope with each panted breath.

Bucky shouted over the din, but he wasn't shouting at Steve. Rather, it was Natalia's name, who'd gone down beneath a larger opponent. His face blanked as he hacked and slashed his way toward her.

Steve would have joined him, but he saw an opening, and in that moment, he broke his promise to stay by Bucky's side. The way he figured things, the opposition, made up mostly of conscripts forced to fight and mercenaries, would fall apart without Pierce. If they could just get to Pierce, the battle could be ended without more bloodshed.

So he ran, feet driving into the soil. Half-way there, he caught the reins of a horse who'd lost its rider and pulled himself into the saddle.

“Steve!”

Samuel, face spattered with blood, raced after him.

“Stay with the others,” he instructed before wheeling the horse around and taking flight toward the hill where Pierce watched the proceedings.

As he raced through the enemy's ranks, hands tried to yank him from the saddle. He batted them away with sword and shield. His heart mirrored the drumming of his mount's hooves. Some part of him begged to turn back, to run away, to stay safe, to return to the time when his life was simple and he knew his place. But that wasn't him anymore. He wasn't that man. He was Steovan Rogers, the man born to be the king of Baile.

So he didn't stop. And he didn't veer his horse in another direction. He was an arrow zipping straight and true.

The sounds of battle grew distant, so much so that Bucky shouting his name was but a whisper easily snatched away by the wind. But Pierce wasn't a fool and dispatched a small retinue of guards to intercept him. Steve had to keep moving. Couldn't let himself be bogged down.

He rode straight toward them. He slashed away weapons left and right until his arm ached and his back screamed with exhaustion.

He broke through the line of soldiers and rode straight for Pierce.

Until he couldn't anymore.

The horse screamed. Its legs buckled. They went down in a tangle of limbs and tack, and Steve's wits scattered like grain. Blackness gobbled him down.

He woke to the vibration of feet pounding his direction. He moved. For one, terrifying moment, his body refused to respond. When it did, he found his foot trapped beneath the horse, whose barrel rose and fell in fluttery, desperate movements. A spear had plunged deep into its belly.

The more Steve yanked to free himself, the closer the enemy came. His own breathing sped up. Panic flared as he scrabbled at the dirt to free himself. They would be upon him in moments.

A horse thundered toward them. It carried Bucky, whose dark hair whipped behind him like a banner. Fury twisted his features.

Steve's foot slipped free. He nearly fell on his arse after the first step, and he feared something was broken. Broken or not, he wasn't giving up, not so close to his goal.

He retrieved sword and shield and stumbled toward Pierce.

“I'm taking back what's rightfully mine whether you're dead or alive.”


	35. Most Of Them Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle rages on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions of medieval warfare, violence, and death.

Fear and fury warred inside him as Bucky thundered toward Steve. He wouldn't stay down. If Steve would just stay down, Bucky could be there in time to kill Pierce and save his addle-brained lover.

Two soldiers broke off pursuit of Steve to intercept him, whose horse trumpeted and reared onto its back legs in fright. Long spears sought purchase in the beast's belly, but Bucky abandoned the mount to engage the enemy on foot.

He danced around the spears and brought his weapon down hard. Wood cracked. Snarling, he twisted away in time to avoid the second spear, came up beneath the first's broken shaft, and whipped his blade into position. Flesh proved little resistance. Blood poured from the enemy's mangled jaw.

The fear returned when he glanced up to see Steve nearing Pierce, three other soldiers in fast pursuit.

Time was ticking away too quickly.

He dispatched the second soldier with a ferocious blow that hacked into the enemy's thigh. He'd likely lose the leg, probably succumb to infection and die after a few days, maybe a week, as Bucky wasn't concerned with finishing him off.

Path cleared, he took off at a sprint. If he could reach them in time. If he could. If. If. Those were too many ifs to determine the fate of his heart.

A shadow passed overhead.

He spared a glance skyward. The things circling overhead were silhouetted against the bright sun. Their wings were huge, much larger than any vulture. Women in bright armor rode upon their backs. Fear spiked through his chest.

“No!” he screamed at the sky. “You won't have him.” He brandished his weapon, hurling curses at the Valkyrie come to choose the worthy for Valhalla.

*

The pain of his injured leg retreated deep inside because only one thing mattered: the death of Alexander Pierce, who dared stand upon the hill with his mother's shield. He threw himself at Pierce. Pierce blocked the blow with the shield and feinted left.

Steve, who had thrown everything he had into the initial strike, was much slower to recover. Pain radiated up his side, but Pierce's sword couldn't penetrate Bucky's beloved armor. Were it not for that armor, he would have been bleeding from a dozen injuries. He couldn't move fast enough to keep up with Pierce's greater speed because every shift of weight onto his injured foot made him see stars.

Things worsened when the first of Pierce's retainers caught up to them. Then, they had him fighting on two fronts, an impossible battle, he realized.

Leaving the safety of Bucky's side had been a mistake.

He slipped and went down on one knee where he blocked one blow with his forearm and the other with his sword. The armor cracked.

Across the way, a winged horse settled. The woman aboard dropped with a jangle of chain mail and armor the likes of which he'd never seen. She waited the outcome of his battle. She waited for him.

He swiped hard at the soldier. His blade clipped shins, opening leather armor and flesh, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid a blow that busted the armor at his shoulder. It sent him sprawling to the dirt.

The woman walked through Pierce's body. She extended a hand to him. “Come,” she said, her voice a wispy, ephemeral thing, “and I will take you to feast in Valhalla.”

He hurt so badly, and the world felt ethereal, like time no longer mattered and Pierce no longer stood with his mother's shield. Part of him wanted to go. This was his chance to fly away, like a bird freed from its cage.

“Don't go,” someone shouted. Someone... Bucky. “You hold my heart. Please, don't go.”

Flesh melted from the woman's face to reveal bone. Gone was the horse upon which she'd ridden. The wings were now a part of her, great and skeletal. She was a harbinger of death reaching toward him with clawed hands and a raspy tongue.

He recoiled. He got his good foot under him, arm still raised and straining against the force of Pierce's downward blow. Somehow, the frozen world thawed.

He settled himself and pushed. Pushed with all his might. And rose. A surge of strength allowed him to throw aside Pierce's blade. He bore down with a two-handed strike that snapped his mother's shield in half. Steel sank deep into Pierce's arm.

Pierce screamed. A wild swing bought him enough time to dance backward where he dropped the useless shield and cradled his arm against his stomach.

“We could have ruled all of Eire,” he said.

“I don't want Eire, and you don't deserve her.”

Fading sunlight glinted off his sword. He pressed the attack, and Pierce fought. Of course he fought; his doom was at hand.

Steve parried an attack, reversed the swing, and punched his blade home. Flesh? Flesh was no protection against steel. His blade broke through with a gentle pop and sank deep.

Pierce looked like he couldn't believe it with his eyes wide and an audible gasp. Blood frothed at his mouth. He collapsed to one knee.

“Finally, you're where you belong: on your knees before someone you terribly wronged.”

More blood spilled when Pierce tried to speak. He fell backward onto the ground, eyes growing distant and dazed in death. None of the winged creatures came to collect his soul.

*

Buck dispatched the final guard before dashing up to catch Steve around the waist so he wouldn't collapse. Blood was everywhere.

“Where are you hurt?”

Steve seemed in a daze. He stared straight ahead.

“Steovan, look at me.”

He finally responded.

“Where are you hurt?”

“Think my foot's broken. My forearm.” He lifted his arm to show where there plate had broke and dug into his flesh. Fresh blood dripped to the ground.

Behind them, the din of combat continued. People screamed. Weapons clashed. Bodies fell into the mud and blood, but word traveled fast. As the leaders of Pierce's allies got wind of Pierce's death, they called their forces into a retreat.

But Bucky was no longer concerned with combat. He searched Steve for life-threatening wounds. Miraculously, he found none, so he took Steve's weight, and together, they made their way to a wandering horse. Steve needed help getting into the saddle, but once there, Bucky leaped up behind him to take the reins and guide them back toward camp.

In the valley below, Thorir led a contingent of Northmen through the last throes of combat. The ending of battle wouldn't be the ending of anyone's day, though. War was never confined to the dealing of death. There were wounded to find. Lives to dispatch if their wounds were too great. People to grieve. And bodies to be buried or burned depending on their traditions.

“That thing that invited me to Valhalla?”

“A Valkyrie.”

“For a moment, I wanted to with her, but you called my name. You pleaded with me to stay. I didn't want to leave you in the end.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of Steve's neck, swallowing around the emotion threatening to escape. The thought of losing Steve made him shake.

“Hush,” Steve murmured. A hand settling on the forearm around his waist. “I'm here. When I was in the brothel, I used to dream of being a bird so I could fly above the world. I don't want that anymore. I want to live my life with you.”

Wetness gathered on Bucky's cheeks. He stopped fighting them, forgot the cruel lessons the world had tried teaching him about what it meant to be a man, and allowed himself tears of relief. Tears of love. Because he was home.

Later, under the darkness of night, Bucky went back to that hill upon which Steve had defeated his demons and gathered up the two halves of his mother's shield. He tucked them into a canvas bag and carried them back to camp. One day, Steve would be able to look upon the shield with pride and as a remembrance of his mother's courage. Maybe not tomorrow or the week after or the year after that. But some day. He would make sure that legacy was there for when Steve needed it.


	36. The Rest Of Them Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outcome of the war.

The day after battle dawned bright with sunshine. Leaden clouds and rain would have been more appropriate. Bucky was one of many combing the battlefield for survivors and locating their dead. Natalia had begged to come along, but he'd refused both her and Steve. M'Baku had volunteered to keep them out of trouble. As if that were a possibility.

He knelt beside a woman whose intestines bulged through her open stomach. Her whimpers cut into him. He did the humane thing and ended her suffering regardless that the crest she wore on her shoulder labeled her an enemy, one of several túatha who'd sided with Pierce.

To battle was to find glory, Arkady had once said. Maybe there was glory in defending one's homeland and family. But the results of its cruelty made him sick. Could be he was the only Northman who felt that way. Even Thorir busied himself celebrating their victory rather than counting the dead.

Others had joined him, of course. Some merely picked bodies of any riches they carried. Others wept when they found a lost loved one. The lucky found their family still alive and with minor wounds likely to heal with good care and time.

Sifrir was one of the lucky ones. She found Brunnhilde alive but missing an eye. The pair ran to each other's arms. They wept over their reunion, and Sifrir carefully dabbed at the blood oozing from her lover's destroyed eye.

Heimdall was not one of the lucky. He found Valgrim's body beneath a pile of dead Celts. Valgrim the Silent had been carried away to Valhalla. His drums would sing no more. Riding in Thorir's longship would never be the same without those drums. Hemidall didn't weep the loss, but he held Valgrim close, and when the time came, he placed his friend upon a funeral pyre and lit the logs himself.

Samuel's luck proved poor as well. He cried in distress, holding Ayo's lifeless body against him, rocking her and calling out what Bucky assumed was a litany of prayers in their native tongue. He felt the urge to go to Samuel and offer comfort but decided it would be an intrusion and left the man to his private grief, a grief shared by his countrymen.

The death toll rose. While Bucky recognized the tragedy, he was also secretly grateful he hadn't lost anyone. It helped ease the nausea as he continued dispatching those who had little chance of survival.

By the time he returned that evening, he was numb. He stepped into his tent to find Natalia braiding Steve's long hair. Both looked up as he entered.

“Ayo was killed.”

Steve's expression crumbled, and he immediately struggled to his feet. “I should be with Samuel.”

He wouldn't try to talk him out of it. Rather, he slipped an arm around his waist and led him from the tent. Natalia indicated she would find Lokir and sit with him. Maybe they would go and pester Heimdall to lift his spirits.

Samuel's people surrounded his tent when they arrived. Their expressions were stoic. The women sang mourning songs while the men kept the beat with their deeper voices. Eako and the children hovered on the outskirts, and when she saw Steve, she rushed over to wrap herself around his leg. He bent to scoop her up.

“Mama has gone to the green fields,” she said.

“I know, Little Bird.”

“They won't let me see her.”

“Your papa has a hurt so big he needs time to say goodbye to your mama. We all have a big hurt over her passing, but I'll tell your father you'd like to see her.”

She snuggled herself deep into Steve's embrace, her little shoulders shaking.

Bucky felt his throat close around emotions while watching them together. Leaders decided to go to war. Everyone else paid the price. He hadn't believed in higher powers before, not until he'd seen the Valkyrie amass themselves over the combat. So there was comfort now, relief in knowing Ayo would be taken to Valhalla to feast with the others or to the green fields of her homeland instead of lying cold on a rug on the ground.

M'Baku exited the tent to take Eako from Steve and ushered him inside to be with Samuel. Bucky wasn't invited. Neither was he angry about it. Steve and Samuel shared a bond. After all, Samuel had risked his people and lost his wife for Steve's freedom.

*

Having his own heart removed and laid at his feet would have hurt just the same as walking into the tent and finding Samuel kneeling beside Ayo's body. She was covered with a woven mat from toe to chin, leaving only her pallid face visible. Samuel dipped a rag into a bowl of water, twisted it to rid it of excess moisture, and wiped away the blood flecked on her lips.

He didn't know what to say and supposed there was nothing that could be said. Rather, he went to his knees next to Samuel to keep silent vigil. They didn't speak. Words wouldn't make anything better, but Samuel seemed less tense at having him near.

The night passed slowly. Once the sun set, people filed into the tent one or two at a time to pay their respects. M'Baku finally brought Eako in, who scrambled into her father's lap. When she tried to speak, he pressed kisses to her cheeks and pressed his fingers to her lips to keep them closed.

It wasn't until dawn that Samuel spoke. “We want to take her home, but the distance is too great. Her spirit would become part of the living world to haunt and to harm. She must go into the ground soon.”

“Baile might not be your home, but you are all welcome there. Including Ayo.”

Samuel looked at him. Moisture shined in his eyes. “Yes. I think she would like that, to run in the green fields of Eire with the friends we have made here.”

“You're always welcome.”

So mere days after the battle, Flann Sinna crowned Steve the king of Baile with little ceremony. One of the bishops presiding over the high king's court said the words and placed a simple, gold band on Steve's brow. He didn't feel any different afterward, but people looked at him differently, with more respect and obeisance.

After that, the various tùatha broke up and began going their separate ways. That included Steve and Bucky along with Thorir and the others. They went mostly on foot with Ayo's body being conveyed on a stretcher covered in white linen to serve as a shroud.

Samuel and his people sang songs along the way to honor her sacrifice.

They returned to Baile in the fall when the leaves were golden and rusty with the passage of time. People looked at Steve with suspicion. They were used to Pierce's mercurial moods, and it would take them to time to heal from having their lives disrupted to service Pierce's desires.

Days later, Samuel, M'Baku, T'Challa, and several others emerged from their tent carrying Ayo, her body arranged feet first, on a stretcher. She was buried outside the stone wall atop a hill overlooking grasslands. Eako and Samuel remained at the burial site for the rest of the afternoon, but when they came down, feasting began to celebrate Ayo's life and death and her transition from one world into the next. Because Samuel's people didn't mark death as the end, but as a different realm of existence.

Ayo had joined the ancestors to watch over her family from the green fields.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a really tough time with this chapter because as we all know, war is Hell, and it would be entirely unlikely for all of our characters to survive. Thor's core group couldn't die because... well because of the black crows following them around. So Valgrim had to die, who was best friends with Heimdal. I hated killing Ayo, but I wanted her loss to reflect Sam's loss of Riley in the MCU. And Brunnhilde (Valkyrie) lost an eye because I didn't want to kill both of my minority women or one half of the only lesbian couple. So that's why I made the decisions I did. I hope no one is terribly unhappy with me.


	37. And That's How The High Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steoven and Bucky are king and co-regent of Baile.

Life went on, and the people of Baile slowly warmed to their new king. Bucky watched it happen over the days and nights, over the weeks and months that followed. When they worked, Steve worked. When they harvested, Steve harvested and shared the grain equally among those who had helped work. 

They finished the stone wall the next spring after spending a hard winter hunkered down inside the various homes stretched out around the old ring fort. Samuel complained mightily about the cold. Their tents weren't enough to keep out the harsh winter, so Steve brought them inside the big house. Everyone was crammed for space, but at least they were able to leave the animals outside for most of the winter in pens hastily constructed in the fall.

The wall looked intimidating, but its gates were always open, allowing people of Baile to come and go. Steve got better at kingship. He learned how to preside over disagreements. He often decided to dole out funds from his coffers to those in special need. Bucky rolled his eyes but never tried to change Steve's mind. Not that Steve ignored him or refused to listen to his counsel.

In fact, Steve often came to him with confusion on his face and anxiety on his lips. During those times, Bucky took him to bed and reminded him what it was like to be loved because Steve continued struggling with his feelings of self-worth and this idea that people would hate him if he made them angry. Trauma left over from being reared in a brothel where he was only worth his body.

When the first signs of spring came, Thorir decided it was time to leave Baile and take to the warmer seas. Bucky took him aside the night before they were scheduled to leave.

Both men still wore heavy cloaks, hoods pulled over their heads to ward off the light drizzle.

“There is a favor I would ask of you.”

“Name it.”

“My mother, when last I saw her, was forced to work in a brothel in Kiev.”

Thorir clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Where is the honor of the Rus and Celts and Saxons and many other nations, allowing their women, their elders, their wise to fend for themselves.”

“And you Norse are so much better, breeding bastards across the land but refusing to name them. My father wasn't even there for my birth. He never acknowledged me. He never named me. My grandfather did.”

“Then your father is a sorry fellow indeed.”

It was the first time another man had acknowledged that Bjarn wasn't the epitome of masculinity and left Bucky momentarily reeling. Something in his world shifted. He wasn't aware at first of Thorir's hand on his shoulder, supporting him.

“Would you find my mother and bring her home? It's all we've ever wanted. To have a home.”

“This is a thing I will happily do for you.”

Thorir started to turn away but Bucky stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Are you sure you're not really him?”

Thorir grinned. “Do I not bleed? Do I not drink and fuck and complain about my aching back?”

“I'm fairly certain there's drinking and fucking and bleeding in Valhalla. As for your aching back, mine would ache too were my head as big as yours.”

Laughter bubbled from Thorir. “If I were him, I would tell you to live well, Boguslav Bjarnson. There are places in the Nine Realms for men like you, who desire a good life tilling the soil and loving your family. Life should not always be about battle and bloodshed.”

“You must not really be him. I hear he's all about battle and bloodshed.”

“And eating the goats that pull his chariot, goats that magically regenerate overnight.”

Bucky stepped closer and hugged Thorir. “You helped save me.”

“I did,” acknowledged Thorir, but there was something close to awe in his voice. Two strong arms pulled Bucky tight. “Perhaps I can return to my father soon, and show him that I have become a man.”

Bucky watched him walk away toward the tents Thorir and his crew stayed in. Nearby, a pair of crows cawed and took to the skies, and Bucky shook his head in disbelief. Maybe even a little wonder. It couldn't be, but he'd also thought the Valkyrie weren't real.

Grinning, he returned to the big house, made is way around the sleeping bodies, and behind the wall that separated their bedroom from the rest of the sleepers. He disrobed and slipped into bed beside Steve, who shivered and complained about Bucky's cold feet.

*

One thing they hadn't anticipated was Natalia's mood turning morose. They should have seen it coming. She'd grown up amidst Thorir's crew. Her best friend was gone, leaving her in a strange place surrounded by strange people at a time in her life when she needed the guidance of a woman to teach her the things she would need to know.

Not even Ayo was around for her to turn to.

Tension came to their household. Bucky blamed himself for not seeing how things would affect her, and he mourned for his child's lost friendship. Until the day Margaret Carter arrived at Baile bringing along her young ward, Clinton. Margaret was from Britannia but had fled in the face of a forced marriage when one of the warring kings had taken over her kingdom.

She fit into the dynamics in Baile quite well, and Natalia had another person her age to associate with. Clinton was young and vivacious, and Margaret was level-headed and refused to hold her tongue for propriety's sake. She took to spending a great deal of time with Steve.

Bucky noticed early on how well Margaret and Steve got along. No matter how he tried, he couldn't help but be jealous of the attention he paid her. Neither could he help wondering if Steve might be better off marrying her in a world where the church actively pursued people they considered deviant.

They got into an argument in the summer that lasted two whole weeks. Natalia was distraught over the distance between them. She tried telling both of them they were behaving like children, and maybe they were, but the thought had dug its claws into Buck's head and wouldn't release. At least not until Steve dragged him off into the woods and fucked him up against a tree, ordering him to spread his cheeks and show him what belonged to Steve in that kingly voice he'd developed.

When they were through, Steve said, “I don't want Margaret in my bed. I want you. I want us. I want this.” He slipped his fingers inside Bucky's loose, wet hole, causing Bucky to stand on tip toe and whine high in his throat.

“But she could give you a family.”

“I have a family.”

“She could give you children.”

“We have a child and could adopt more if we wanted.”

“Being with me puts you in danger from the church.”

“Fuck the church. They don't get to tell me what I use my body for. No one gets to tell me that again. Not even you. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

Steve took him by the chin and kissed him hard and deep.

And it was those kisses that got them into trouble when a bishop came to visit one day during that first summer. He brought two of his underlings with him and an armed escort and stepped down from the box he traveled in that was drawn by two black horses. He had to lift his pompous robes to his shins to keep from tripping over them.

The bishop introduced himself and the two clerics he intended to leave in Baile to shepherd the people of Steve's kingdom into the grace of God and the Church. Apparently they were so naughty they required two clerics and a new church.

Alas, Steve and Bucky weren't used to hiding their affections and kissed in the big house in front of their guests. The bishop acted like the devil himself had entered the room. He shouted that it was an abomination. He threatened to take this information to the Pope, to have them tried for sodomy and burned so they could be cleansed of their sins. He even asked the people of Baile why they hadn't reported their king for his fiendish lusts.

Phillip, one of the elders of the community, stood and remarked, “Because they're our heathens, Your Grace, and we like them just the way they are.”

The bishop and his clerics left that night.

Later that year, they received a letter from Flann Sinna expressing his disappointment that Baile would not be a Christian kingdom, but he'd refused the Church's demands to do anything about it. After all, he owed Steven and Bucky his crown. They were war heroes, and no one of importance spoke out against them on the bishop's behalf.

They made love that night, content with their lives and their home, and in the wee hours, Bucky slipped out of bed to continue his work on Steve's shield.


	38. Took My Daddy From Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. I can't believe it's taken me a year to write this. This has been the most challenging and difficult thing I've written in fandom. There were times I wanted to scrap it, but I had a few wonderful people who consistently commented and encouraged me to keep writing. So this work is complete because of those of you who've stuck with it from the beginning. And thanks to all the people who came along in the middle of the process, too.
> 
> It was an entirely a labor of love, and I can't even explain how relieved I am to have it complete.
> 
> Special thanks to [princessoftheworlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds) who was always there to encourage me.

Summer came and went. Fall and winter were harsh that year, but they survived on their crop reserves from a plentiful harvest, but they couldn't always count on good harvests. The idea had been Samuel's, who understood the importance of trade, the importance of having more than one source of income.

So the three of them stood on a hill overlooking the new harbor on the northeastern coastline of Baile. It had been completed and opened to ships in the spring. New jobs meant a new influx of people into the kingdom, and the surrounding settlement would grow as business did. The same way the old ring fort had grown outside its walls with new homes and businesses going up every year.

“I want to give you lands of your own,” Steve said.

Samuel, who was quieter these days, inclined his head.

“Better be careful lest he gives you marshland,” Bucky commented.

“If he gives me marshland, I will poison his well and leave his people shitting for a week.”

The three men laughed.

“At least I'm not being threatened with being fed to crocodiles.”

Bucky didn't recognize the sails at first. The ship that approached was long and flat-bottomed with numerous oars gliding it across the water and into a dock. Only then did he recognize the prow, the depiction of Mjolnir. Shouting, he took off at a lope.

Thorir had already disembarked and checked in with the harbor master by the time Bucky plowed into him. He grabbed the giant of a man in a bear hug.

“You are always welcome here, friend.”

“Good. I have spices to trade, and I hear Baile's cheese is not something to be missed.”

They hugged again before Thorir stepped back. Bucky couldn't control the pace of his heart and glanced at the deck of the longship in search of a familiar face. Brunnhilde came down the plank next, her eye covered with a patch. Sifrir came next. Both women hugged him, but his heart was too busy tripping its way into his stomach.

Because her face had changed. It carried new lines from age. Once-dark hair had lightened over the year, but her blue eyes were the same: dark and stormy like his. Seeing her made it impossible to keep the tears at bay.

“Moder? Mama?”

“My Boguslav. Look at you. You are a man now.”

They went into each other's arms and clung. He wasn't sure he'd be able to let her go again, but eventually, they pulled back to look and replace old memories with new. His heart was full. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek and stroke away the wetness of her tears with his thumb.

“You're home, Mama. We have a home now, one no one will take away from his. Come. There are people I want you to meet. This is Steovan. He is my family. He's my mate. Mama, you have a granddaughter. She is fierce and beautiful.”

“Steovan,” she acknowledged. Her head cocked upon noticing the gold band on his brow. “You did not tell me that your mate is a king.”

“The least interesting thing about him, I assure you.”

“Please, call me Steve.”

“Steve then. You are my son now, too. Show me everything.”

Together, they did, eventually traveling home and taking her inside the big house. Steve had demolished the little home he'd been kept prisoner in, and in its place stood a larger home, one for the unmarried ladies, women like Margaret and now Darya. They stored her things there, a paltry amount Bucky intended to remedy as soon as possible.

Back in the big house, they passed the shield hanging over the great hearth. Red for the blood they'd spilled. Blue for the color of Baile. And a white star for the unity of their people.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come hang out with me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard)


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